Our Last Home on Earth

I push the revolving doors,
that shelter precious treasures to stay.
When we are not sure anymore,
we put our loved ones away.

Walking down the hall,
pass by beautiful flower vases.
Cozy corners to chat, make calls,
fashion magazines bright with new faces.

She stands outside her room,
clutching a frayed housecoat.
Looking frail, she wears a touch of gloom,
lost in a world of make believe.

Placing an object in my hands.
Lovingly, she has painted it, craft hour.
A box of "gold" on embossed cardboard,
filled with violet and white flowers.

“I made it just for you,” she whispers.
“I remember violet, in your curtains.”
It is rose, Mom, like your sweet cheeks.
She waits for a look of praise, a kiss.

The smile, like her heart, is fragile,
any unkind word might break it.
I feel tears, remember my kids ornaments,
lots of love to make, tiny fingers to fit.

Was this change for her or me?
For an angel with broken wings,
it seems a lovely place to call home.
Caretakers to help with everything.

This world has gentle brave souls.
Some wear bibs and diapers.
I watch a gentleman, his napkin folds
to wipe his lady’s quivering mouth.

Machinists, makers of precision molds.
Healing physicians, bright scientists.
Politicians, Judges, heroic soldiers.
Teachers, musicians, artists

These are our libraries.
Keepers of legacies.
Pillars of wisdom.
Lovers of Life.

The best and the brightest,
once were the future, now are our past.
May their memories give us peace,
teach us lessons that will last.

By Kathie Stehr

May 2020




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