~ Hospice

It is sweet how he dresses her

monochromatically—

blue with blue, white with white,

as if afraid of making a mistake.

Eight years ago her tiny strokes began

and now she is a little bird

twittering pleasantly on the couch.

He cooks for her, nutritious things,

and pats her roughly, warmly, on the cheek.

When the daffodils bloomed

she passed the day in yellow cotton

(socks, pants, overly warm blouse)

and May Day was pink down to the slippers.

He is tired.

When her nervous bird eyes close

she meets with old friends,

laughing with ease and delight.

This is how I know who she was.

I stand on the porch, about to knock,

about to set him free for an hour or two,

when I’m humbled by a sound.

He is alone

with his wife.

He is whistling

loudly, brightly.