The summer had come and gone,
And tomorrow, she was leaving,
Going back to the city to wait
The warming spring's returning.
At 88, she had decided it best,
Husband gone four years,
Two hips healed, but stiffening;
Ice forming on the ground
To keep her from walking;
Time to go back to the city to rest,
Hopefully to return when whooping cranes
V'eed north again in spring.
She'd packed her things
In two suitcases yesterday:
Simple clothes,
Her Bible,
A pair of shoes, or two;
Not much now,
No need.
She wondered if he'd do one thing
Before they drove away.
"My nails need a trim."
So, here he was,
Bent low to hold each foot,
To trim his mother's nails...
Memory, returned then,
Reversed four years
To this same chair,
In this same house,
His father struggling for air,
Needing help to dress.
He saw again his father's feet,
Frail and white and cool,
The nails long and needing care.
Embarrassed, the old man,
Despite the lack of breath,
Wheezed he couldn't bend
To reach his feet.
And the son had bowed then
To trim his father's nails,
And dressed him before
The three of them began the journey
From which only two returned.
And now, the week before Christmas,
The mother and her son,
Focused on the nail clipping,
Knowing certain chores,
However poignant,
Must be done.
Dec 23, 2015
Dec 23, 2015 at 8:58 AM UTC
The summer had come and gone,
And tomorrow, she was leaving,
Going back to the city to wait
The warming spring's returning.
At 88, she had decided it best,
Husband gone four years,
Two hips healed, but stiffening;
Ice forming on the ground
To keep her from walking;
Time to go back to the city to rest,
Hopefully to return when whooping cranes
V'eed north again in spring.
She'd packed her things
In two suitcases yesterday:
Simple clothes,
Her Bible,
A pair of shoes, or two;
Not much now,
No need.
She wondered if he'd do one thing
Before they drove away.
"My nails need a trim."
So, here he was,
Bent low to hold each foot,
To trim his mother's nails...
Memory, returned then,
Reversed four years
To this same chair,
In this same house,
His father struggling for air,
Needing help to dress.
He saw again his father's feet,
Frail and white and cool,
The nails long and needing care.
Embarrassed, the old man,
Despite the lack of breath,
Wheezed he couldn't bend
To reach his feet.
And the son had bowed then
To trim his father's nails,
And dressed him before
The three of them began the journey
From which only two returned.
And now, the week before Christmas,
The mother and her son,
Focused on the nail clipping,
Knowing certain chores,
However poignant,
Must be done.
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