Some days she comes home
sad, having ushered one of
her patients into the big sleep.
And she pours a drink, sometimes
telling us the medical side and
sometimes half asleep after the
first sip. And sometimes she
won't come home 'til 7 hours
after her shift, 'cause the evening
nurse didn't show and she has
paperwork to do (and management
has gone home, so she can relax
a bit), and we keep dinner
in the microwave cause even
saints gotta eat.
And her mom is becoming her
favorite patient, requiring
extra patience because my grandma
was a doctor. And she's now 92
with a failing heart and a mind
that can't quite hold on to what
it used to. And my mom is gonna
hold her hand, calmly carrying
another weakened, time-stricken
soul on her weight-thickened shoulders,
to the vacant hole that holds the
after. And she'll do it not 'cause
she has to, because all she's
ever done
                 is care.