Restless fingers gather and fold institutional material, crisp and white.
Kneeling, I tuck a lap robe woven in shades of blues and grays and lavender.
Old, old eyes look into the blue and green of mine,
Her hazed over stare brightening to an intelligence rare
“Hello, lovey,” her whispery voice caresses me.
She forgets my name, every time, but no matter
I know she knows me, the me that is me deep down inside of me,
and I smile.
“Christmas is nigh, my child, and so we must plan
What delights shall we bake, what scents will flood the air we breathe?
And the gifts, oh yes, the gifts we’ll seed
With love and laughter and need fulfilled to brimming contentment.
I see your dreams in here, flowing all about inside your mind.
Your soul is growing, ever knowing more and more.
More than you should ever have had to know.
A learning of things, all for a reason, the purpose of which
You will know before one more decade passes.”
Trembling hands on my face, in my hair,
She pulls me close, and I lay down my head
On a lap made warm by the sun and by the cover woven by my hands.
“Rest,” she says, every day.
And so I do
With my head in her lap
Fragile fingers holding me still,
Weaving dreams with the plaiting of my hair.