A journal of narrative writing.
Aunt Lee's Last Year
If you had seen my big flat lemon-colored shoes,
you would've hated them. "Are those shoes orthopedic?"
you would've asked and twitched your head.
You hobbled on your high heeled shoes right 
to death's stone shore and stood there, waiting.

The dead man folded in a sheet and wheeled 
from the next room on his silver cart would have 
thrilled and offended you. You would have complained 
of the doctors who paused each day at your door 
to note no change and check their watches,

complained of the nurses who turned your heavy body 
in your bed with perfect tenderness. For a year 
your coma wrapped your eyes and arms 
and ears and mouth in miles of taut gauze. 
It held you and held you. I shouted in your ear.  

With haggard acquiescence you let your medicines 
drip into you. You blinked. Sometimes your mouth 
jerked open, aghast. I looked at little pictures 
on the TV screen, Clinton and Madonna and the Mets,
and walked the white hospital, bound by its routines.

When I bent to kiss your parchment cheek, you seemed 
yourself, about to tell me you did all the work while 
the pretty sisters married one by one. But through 
blank snow and sun and snow again you never spoke. 
You fell away from me with no complaints.