It had been four months since I started
reading his favorite poems aloud
to crack through congested silence.
I memorized the way
his nose crinkled up when I stuttered,
his husky chuckle after I read
one of his favorite lines,
the smell of yellowed, dog-eared pages.
I got to know this man
who had seemingly lost everything
and was just waiting
for his children to visit,
his medications to be dropped off,
to be with his wife once more.
I wore his favorite burgundy scrubs;
it was almost his birthday
and I had a new book to add
to his collection.
They didn’t tell me before I walked in.
It was bare:
the room reeked of bleach,
there were no sheets on the bed,
his few belongings were stuffed
in a cardboard box in the corner of the floor.
I sat on the mattress and wondered
why his kids were not here
mourning or making arrangements,
why I didn’t get to see the slight tug
of his lips to form a smirk when
I showed him the new Tennyson
that would now just gather dust.
He left me his anthologies in his will.
November 30, 2014
4:41:38 PM*