Adella

Gray hair
No longer dyed rusty red
No longer in a tight bun

She sits.

Blue eyes gazing out the window
As leaves dance by.

What season is it?
What day?
Hell, what year?
Her eyes ask
Beg
Those leaves.

She used to dance too
Bending down
To grip my tiny fingers.
Her laughs were tiny sighs
As we twirled about the room
Her bright skirts billowing.

Her fingers dance instead now
Slowly
On the windowpane
From the recesses of her mind
To the rhythm of heart monitors.

She smiles when she notices me
Someone significant
Her sister
Daughter
Granddaughter
Friend.

We embrace.

Next week
I will be less than significant
More than stranger.

Next week
There will be no War in Iraq
There will be no Holocaust
There will be no need
For Hiroshima Memorials.

Next week there will only be dancing fingers
On the windowpane.