She still looks like herself.
They’ve removed the bandages and the drain.
They’ve moved her out of the I.C.U.
She is taking steroids and something for the pain.

Now the long battle must begin
To regain something of all she lost.
To learn to speak and to converse,
It has to happen despite the cost.

We show her pictures in a frame,
Or her wedding book from off the shelf.
In hopes that she’ll remember names;
Yes, even what she calls herself.

She knows her birthday, that she’ll repeat;
Like a captured soldier who had been trained
to give name, rank and serial number.
At least one fact has been retained.

There is intelligence in her eyes
And now she repeats what others say
It’s how small children learn to speak
Repeating what their mothers say.

She was a woman very much in control;
Gracious, kind and worldly wise.
All overthrown by traitorous cells;
If she is to live they, all, must die.

The future is uncertain
And the prognosis has been bleak.
The odds are against her.
She grows frail and weak.

Yet even should she lose this fight,
And depart this world of pills and pain,
The sweet sound of my sister’s voice
In memory echoing shall remain.