Vesper
Her eyes, though once bright, are cloudy,
shrunken and fragile the form
that long was brimful of vigor
and a will to outlast life's storms.
She stares past a blank horizon
through a door that I do not know;
the colors she sees are memories,
scents and sounds of the long ago.
A kaleidoscope of faces
turns merry-go-round in her mind;
while trees out her window whisper
soft lullabies long left behind.
The sound of my cheery greeting
draws her back to this metal room,
away from a creaking rocker
and her mama's sweet, gentle croon.
It is not my name she whispers
as I bend down to kiss her cheek,
but a name more dear than ever
mine was is the name that she speaks.
"Papa," the feeble voice quavers.
I am no more a part of her world;
the grandma that soothed my sorrows
is once again Papa's wee girl.
© 1987, Faye Lanham Gibson
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