In The Nursing Home
©February 10th, 2018
By Vijaya Sundaram
I have no words tonight,
None that would suffice, anyway.
I want to be pure and simple –
Simple in thought, word and deed.
The humming of the world increases
In this room, this bed, this confined space.
A lifetime can be summed up thus:
I lived, grew older, fell, moved, died.
Perhaps, the world was changed by me
Perhaps, I was changed by it.
It matters not, not now. At present,
I am content-not content with these:
This bar of chocolate, this clementine,
These earrings, this necklace, this ancient
Gold watch that belonged to my mother’s mother,
That ring, my mother’s engagement ring,
These paintings, full of life and colour,
And talent – mine, my joy in seeing beauty –
These reminders of someone, a stranger
Who lived long ago, vibrant and witty,
Full of ambition and love of poetry,
Pretty and scholarly, and generous
Sarcastic, hurtful, loved, but not always liked,
Always striving to do what was right.
Rain comes down like regret,
And I forget why, although I weep.
The silent woman seated in the other bed
Speaks, and is silent again, staring fixedly at
The silent television, its screen dark.
Perhaps, it’s raining where she sits, too.
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