Sitting at your kitchen table,
dressed in a red plaid robe,
you were frail and unwell.
Head wrapped in a towel -
your once silky brunette hair
gone with the drugs.

You wouldn’t look at me -
and so we sat there quietly
gathering ourselves
for conversation.
I knew on that day
I had to change,
to rearrange my thinking.

You needed someone -
didn’t want someone -
to help you crush this sickness.
I swallowed hard,
gently spoke new rules -
I would visit daily, cook meals, walk the dog,
bring in the mail after work -
and...