Today I gave the elders hand massages. Tabitha, who couldn’t be left alone this morning,

took her pill and sat sedately in the chair, half-sleeping. I rubbed the lotion onto her hands

and began to sing every lullaby I knew. I rubbed each finger, caressing the skin that

moved with such elasticity, skin that seemed to move over the bone.


Such a pill, Tabitha, such a pill took away your questions, your demands; it took away

your mischief and your calling me Dorothy.


I sang to you as though I was your mother and you were my overgrown white-haired

baby, sorry that the world was so hard that we had to silence you.

11/16/2005

Author's Note: poem 1 from when I worked at an assisted living center with Alzheimer residents.

Posted on 11/17/2005
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