Reflections and Stars

By Wally Swist

/ Poetry /      

I enter the ward

and see you at the end

of the long hallway

sitting among others

in their wheelchairs.

When I reach you, I place

my forehead against yours,

and hear you whisper,

“There are reflections

everywhere.” After I move

you to a quieter corner,

I read Rilke to you and

you respond to the poem

about stars. I comb your

long hair back so I can

put on one of the colored

headbands I brought.

Today is dark grey,

to harmonize with your

blue plaid flannel shirt.

After you receive your meds,

you get sleepy and nap

on and off until the doors

are opened to the dinning

area and breakfast is served.

You are vulnerable today,

your inner child rampant

across your high cheek bones

and radiant face. I am

entranced by the sweetness

of your playfulness, the delight

you exhibit that is contagious.

I try several ways of saying

goodbye but none are ever

adequate, nearly beyond

understanding for both of us,

our saving grace being

that at least I alerted you

about how blue the sky was

and you asked me what

that streak of gold was

brightening the magnolia’s

newly opened leaves

and I said it was a bolt

of sunlight, at which your

eyes opened wider and I

cherished you more than ever.