Of Late

We’re seeing Mom at least three times a week
of late. We seem adjusted to the new
routine. Except it changes. Symptoms peak
and some subside. Acute and chronic flip.
Another hospital, a new technique –
but overall her system’s in decline.
We’re not expecting much. Our tears don’t leak
to mourn a life so long and loving too.
No pain or fearfulness are what we seek.

(Magic 9)

This entry was posted in Aging, Family, Health, Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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