For the Wives
She parks the car and trudges inside
for her daily visit
hoping that the new rouge hides
the old tears.
Five years now she has been coming
to see him
He looks nothing like the pictures to
anyone but her.
They say she should go home
and rest, relax
She doesn't know how without him there.
She's had to learn to fix things
she mows grass
and does his laundry at home
She likes it when he smells nice
like he used to.
They don't care like she does
They feed and water him
turn him over
clean up his messes
while they talk about their weekend.
They think she doesn't see them
roll their eyes
when she asks for news of him.
He's fine they say.
If he was fine would he be here?
She cares.
So when they're short with her she cries.
That upsets him
and makes her feel guilty added to sad.
How to make them understand
that he is more than what they see?
He's a father and a fisherman
a foreman and fun at parties
He likes to feel that he's earned
his rest and food
But now they come too easily
and time crawls.
He hurts and misses his dog.
His life in the moving kodak frame
so far away.
The only thing that makes it bearable
is her faithfulness.
He loves her.
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Author's Note
An ode to the partners of nursing home residents.
I see the parents of friends so clearly in this and yep, they still love each other and the forced separation is just as you've described.
Yes.
Thanks for the comments. I appreciate them.
This is stunning.
"makes her feel guilty added to the sad."
Such a tangible thing.
Great.
There's so much here. Excellent piece. *
Good story with great details. Not an ode, though.
Sorry Gary,
I took liberty with the word.
Tribute would have been better.
This is very touching. Thanks!
Wow...this hits home. My dad did 3 years of visits and then she died now he's in the same place. These places are hard, where our loved ones are fed and watered, where time crawls even as you're dizzied by the swiftness of such change *
Thank you, Heather and Doug, for your comments. I was very emotional when I wrote this poem, one evening after listening to a resident's wife as she talked about her experience. I am pleased that it strikes a chord. While I fully support the hard-working direct-care personnel in long-term care, I also do my best to understand the residents and families. The state we admit people in is the only way we know them. Their loved ones remember them much differently.
If Bukowski can call one his poetry collections: THE ROOMING HOUSE MADRIGALS, well, I see no problem with calling this lovely piece an "ode." Words like ode, madrigal and paeon no longer have the precise meanings they had centuries ago; but they still convey a power and a beauty that it is not, in this cipher's opinion, inappropriate to apply to a modern piece. Thanks for the ode!
Heartfelt. Real.
Thank you, Gary.
Oh man this is a gut-punch of a poem. It HURTS.
"He likes to feel that he's earned his rest and food
But now they come too easily" made a sound come up my throat. Brav-fucking-O, lady. *