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 whatever else it took
until you recovered.

Finally, you looked at me
like I was a stranger
you met ten minutes ago
at a bus stop -
making rules for you,
the rule-maker.
The tears in your eyes fell.
I wanted to cry with you
but maintained my new persona,
got up and said matter-of-factly -
“Now why don’t I walk the dog.”

I reached for the leash
hanging by the door,
and then you were there,
your arms wrapped tightly around my neck.
I felt myself slipping -
clenched my jaw, patted you lightly
on the back.
Felt the bones and thinness of you
nearly crushing me.
In a hoarse whisper I said,
“You don’t have to do this alone.”

Then I leashed the dog,
slipped out the back door -
and when I was far enough away,
I became myself again
and cried into the dying day.

© Laura DeHart Young