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.