William Snyder
Me, my father, nurse Joanne—the blue
carpet, the clean fluorescence, the open
rooms. And inside those rooms,
people with gift-wrap paper, soda cans,
TV remotes. My father doesn’t look,
though days ago he would have, would’ve
asked, even strangers: How are you?
Beautiful day, isn’t it? But now it’s his
feet—if he can align them properly,
one foot in front of the other. His arms stiff,
tremulous, his fingers too, gripping
the walker handles. Legs, knees, hips—
stiff. Head, neck, shoulders sagging.
Joanne says, Lean back on your heels. Try
to stand up straight. But his feet
lag and she says, Step, step up, step up
to the walker. He tries, his slippers
toeing the carpet like a toddler’s might.
I walk behind, watch the gown sleeve slip
from his shoulder, the gown bottom open,
his flattened butt, the serrated veins
like tobacco leaf. I push the wheeled, silver
pole he’s tethered to—plastic bags
swaying there like translucent fruit. I stop
when he stops. He’s tired. Or it’s just his
stubbornness. Food, water, medicine
slosh in the bags, seep down
tubes to the hole in his side, cut
there for drips, for funnel spouts the nurses
use when time is important. Time is
important, even on this walk—how long,
how short, is anybody’s guess.