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Poem


Walking down stark white corridors, the stench of bleach burns my nostrils.
With every step, I can feel sorrow lump in my quivering throat.
Looking down at the wrinkles on my shirt, I quickly smooth them over with sweaty palms.
The P.A. speaker crackles some incoherent name in the distance.
Bathed in yellowish-white illumination,
The droning of fluorescent lights singes my corneas.
Reading the room numbers, I’m almost at my destination.
The ticking of clocks seems to slow to my melancholy.
One room away, I can faintly hear your weakened voice.
Opening a sterile door, your hollowed-out face turns to me.
Biting my tongue, I hold back a flood of tears.
Leaning over to hug your fragile body, I can feel the drastic weight loss.
Your once-beautiful auburn hair has become a tangled nest.
So I grab my bag, pull out my tools, and get to work.
Gingerly, I separate strands of hair with a pick comb—
One by one, with an undying love, until I get down to the last knot.
Unsalvageable, I grab worn stainless steel scissors—
The ones you used on me since childhood.
I cut out the intrusive knot and grab your pale pink brush.
Gently, I stroke your hair, now shining under the overhead light.
Pushing the button on the side of the hospital bed, you raise up more.
Sitting behind your delicate state, I start the French braid.
It doesn’t have the same length now, but it still has the feeling of home.
Lying you back down, I kiss your forehead.
Whisper, “Hush now—you look like yourself again.”
Everything is as it should be when you close your eyes one final time.

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