Someone I knew

Whose Name I’ve Forgotten

She was old and ordinary; seldom spoke,

Except for a sober stare.

Had been true. A stay at home mom,

The daughters said, who loved them all.

Could cook and clean and keep a tidy house;

loyal to her man until he died.

Stayed home till she could barely stride,

Could no longer drive.

Had been a model resident in a life care room.

Seldom spoke, kept a sober stare.

Daughters didn’t visit often enough.

It’s tough, they said, with work, kids and all.

And no one to watch her throughout the day.

One day she broke her hip walking down the hall,

Perhaps headed toward the light past the exit door

They moved her to a hospital bed

With all the tubes attached. 

I went to see her.  I had a job to do.

She lay in bed with her tombstone stare,

Not caring who I was. 

She turned her head and moved a hand.

Her last words uttered slowly, staccato-like,

In labored breath. Each word floated

Around the room: “I…want…to…go…home.”

I called her daughters, but she was already gone.

                                                -- C. S. Cholas 

(remembering social worker days in Colorado

                                                            circa 1975)