ASSISTED LIVING

It is the little vanities 

that tell me 

she has returned.

The way she risked

 

falling just to get 

her bracelet back on; 

the way she stood 

at the kitchen sink

scrubbing her dirty ear rings 

with her gnarled, arthritic hands,

so could have them dangle again

from her dainty lobes;

the way she had to touch up 

her burgundy lipstick 

before going down for dinner

in the dining hall;

and the way she had to find 

her favorite comb 

before going to bed—

the four others she found,

that were more than willing 

to do the job, just won’t do.

None of this mattered

three weeks ago.

There was no energy or interest 

in any of the accoutrement of daily life.

My mother could hardly speak, see or 

leave her hospital bed

after the stroke sent her to 

the ICU one night.

She won’t be going home,

the doctors said, back then.

Skilled nursing will be her life

from here on out.

She showed them.

Home is where the heart is.

And where you keep 

your favorite comb.