The Season of the Last Happiness

We were there. We were with her. Retired, 

I didn’t have to be on the phone or email 

with anyone. I could be there for her. 

With her. Every day. All day. She didn’t 

want a lot. What she wanted most was 

for the PT to be done. It didn’t matter any more. 

And so we said, “Begone!” though 

we were nicer than it sounds 

and everyone on the team totally agreed. 

So they said their good-byes, wished 

her well, backed out of the room 

and left her in peace.  We sat together, 

we talked, we read books and newspapers. 

We did her nails every Wednesday afternoon. 

She could see the flashes of color 

on her fingertips. Meals she wanted 

we did our best to bring them all. 

And snacks, too.  Hot, black coffee 

with chocolate every night. She slept. 

Then hot tea with lemon and shortbread 

and lemon cookies, sometimes raspberry 

ones as well in the afternoon. All good.

It was a special time. Sometimes 

she knew us. Those were the best times. 

And the conversations about people 

we didn’t know, well, all we needed 

to do was agree now and then.

It was all good. Long term memory, 

you know. I wondered where she’d been 

as we sat some afternoons 

and she whispered quietly. 

What was happening?

Yes, it was a quiet, special time.