This is not my home, you say.
You were in a living room
With thirteen other women,
your words nearly gone.
She was an English professor,
I tell the staff. She loved books.
Sometimes I read to you
and it calms you, even though
I don’t know if you can understand.
But they’re silly dog picture books.
not Doris Lessing, or Robin Morgan
or Audre Lorde.
This is not my home, you say.
She likes sweets, I tell the caregivers.
I bring homemade chocolate chip cookies
every week. You try to feed yourself.
Your movement is unsure, but
I guide your hand to your mouth
as if you were a two year old.
Chocolate smears on your fingers
and your shirt. The stain does not bother you,
but I choke back tears.
The need for touch remains.
I brush your soft white hair,
massage your shoulders, file your nails.
You relax for a minute and smile.
I am a stranger, but a kind stranger
with chocolate chip cookies
and a fluffy dog. This is not
my home, you say.
It’s where you live now,
I tell you, gently.
She loved dogs, I tell anyone
who cares to hear.
I say it over and over.
You laugh with delight
when I bring my dog.
He laps up crumbs the residents drop
on the dining room floor.
You call him Good Boy
and rub his curly head,
nodding happily when he offers his paw
for a shake. The caregivers spoil him
with treats. They wear scrubs and sweatpants,
and show me photos of their own dogs
on their phones. This is not my home,
you say.
But one day, there is no interest
in the book. No appetite.
When I make conversation
There is no recognition at all.
Just a blank stare. Names mean nothing.
And then on a Sunday, not long before you die
I bring the dog. I bring him right up to you
to pet as always. But you look away.
Not today, you say, So clearly, the words
right there. Not today.
