In the end, we had to inflict peace upon her.
Hospice found the magic cocktail
to make her rest.
The nurse assistant comes to wash her tiny body.
“We’re going to the beauty shop,” the nurse says.
“Gonna get you all pretty.”
There’s nothing to hide
as morning sun streams through bedroom windows.
There’s new evidence of disease.
Mom can’t move.
The nurse sweats. I help (I try).
And when the nurse washes her hair —
oh! There is a sound, a sound Mom always made
when she went to the beauty shop.
After that, she sleeps.
The nurse says, “You’ve really been through it, hon,
I don’t know who she’s talking to.