WITHERED HANDS

WITHERED HANDS

The nursing home stands high on a hill
awaiting visitors who will come to see
their family members, ravaged by age
and waiting - always in waiting for me.

My sister's life was her six children;
she taught school for forty-two years.
An unlikely fate for a very good lady
that reduces me quite often to tears.

She is a shell of what she used to be,
curled in a fetal-like position in sleep.
I sit by her bedside until she awakes;
seeing her is the one promise I'll keep.

She hasn't known me for many a year
and her eyes are somewhere far away.
I wonder if she can even hear my voice
or can understand anything that I say.

She wakes up with a smile of greeting,
coming out of some beautiful dreams,
reaching out to me with withered hands
then she is gone again, or so it seems.

One day she'll be free of that prison,
the visits to her side will be no more.
Hands I held in my own will be gone
to a better home on Heaven's shore.

Countrymom
1/24/07