He sits at the end of the hallway in the home for the aged.
A priest not ancient but tired and done.
He sits in his chair so quiet and still, it looks like he’s painted there.
He watches me walk down the hall.
His eyes are the freshest part of him.
They look up at me.
I ask how he’s doing.
He can’t answer because there’s a hole in his throat where his voice box
used to be.
He takes my hand in both of his,
And I feel a soul at peace.
May lies in her bed at impossible angles.
White hair flows back from her forehead.
Her arms rest across her chest, poles with hands on the ends.
“I had a bad week, hon. The birds tried to eat my feet.”
“You’re ok now,” I tell her.
“Yes, hon, I’m fine now. I’m always better when I see you.”
I tell her I’ll see her again next week.
“You won’t forget will you, hon?”
I pat her feet. “I won’t forget.”
by Frank Friel
Frank Friel, cut man, writer and featured guest on the Yandy Project Podcast.