Your hands, blue skin stretched over bones.
Humming as you rouge your cheeks and lips,
But you still look like a sad, old
Person in makeup
I watch your reflection in the bathroom mirror
While you place more pins in your hair
For the fifth time this morning.
And I hear you talking quietly,
To yourself or your dead husband
Singing songs from your life
That only the two of you can hear.
It’s Sunday and I always take you to church
Cause even though you never remember my name
Some part of you always seems to know
When we skip that one duty,
And I must guiltily bear your temper
For the rest of the day.
I watch you make your way up the aisle
To the altar in front and notice
That your knees seem weaker than last week.
And I wonder to myself,
Why one who has been dealt so unfairly,
And has lost a husband, a sister, a self
Can still be so faithful
And smile in the mornings.
Still you close your hymnal hoping,
While I listen to your cracking voice,
“Jesus, My Shepherd!” you moan
“Lead me Home.”