Edith Is Found

At the foot of the stairwell face up she lay, knocked, smashed, kicked, robbed, disfigured, lifeless so it seemed, when the police came, with ambulance attending. In the trauma ward it was all we knew, except her name was Edith. Over eighty the nurses guessed she might be. Her face so swollen, she lay unconscious, so dependent on attentive hands nursing. Edith was just a form; charts recorded her distressed state; a person we could not know. Without family would she have anyone to live for? The third day two young people arrived; shocked to see her so unresponsive – as neighbours they came again with others. Before she opened her eyes we began to know Edith, her nature mirrored in those she had befriended, cared for. Cared for, injuries began to heal. Pillowed, her hair washed, we could imagine her as lively, full of interest. One day she seemed aware of conversations, their presence touching, encouraging her response which came with a hand held out to grasp friendship; found. From there it was a long way for Edith to get back up; and to walk, to climb those stairs to home, but with therapy she was remade with young friends, friends to live for. She was found.