Abandoned In America

Her mind, four years old, was once eighty-two. Her age, eighty-nine, is two-timing. Her silky white hair was once black, every strand. The child she became is beautiful. She laughs with the first light, and moans the day's end; she is a child her grand daughter’s age. Bowed, her posture. Crooked, her knees. Her eyes seek the moments lost, making it hard for me to find her needs. This room is a jail cell, this place is a nightmare. Today is quickly forgotten; she lives in the bygone. She’s abandoned and lonely; it’s all in her gaze. She looked at me hopefully; her words pierce my core: “I’m from America and I want to go home.” She doesn't believe her beloved would do her this wrong.