Here’s a lovely poem for the caregivers among us, by Terri Kirby Erickson, who lives in North Carolina.
Draped in towels,
my grandmother sits in a hard-backed
chair, a white bowl
of soapy water on the floor.
She lifts her frail arm, then rests it,
gratefully, in her daughter’s palm.
Gliding a wet
washcloth, my mother’s hand
becomes a cloud, and every bruise, a rain-
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