I see her swaying
On those orthotic shoes,
Leaning on the counter and watching,
For her family to come and eat.
The joy in her countenance
Is bright and pure,
Like her snowy hair.
I find myself wishing, again,
To be as she is.
When she hears the door open, she holds out her hands.
The smile transforms
Her face into a map of lines—
A happy place,
Like the flowers on her Hawaiian shirt.
With hands outstretched,
She leans into the love.
Like a billowing sheet on wash day
Snapping out to touch the sky--
Blown by a warm wind.
She struggles to rob
The last shadows before blindness,
The features of my face.
Getting this right
Is important to her.
I am important to her.
I can feel it in the cool touch
Of papery-thin skin,
And I know without her saying a single thing.
I am her sky.
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