Broken bones and twisted joints keep her there,

shackled to the bed, prisoner in a jail.

The phone rings; she doesn’t move; sheets cover

her face, a sixteen year bride with a veil.

 

We pause, not moving to stop the noise,

the sound we dreaded and that she hoped for.

It was supposed to help but only destroys

any hope we had of her working again.

 

I wait, wishing she would come back to me,

praying that she would become whole once more,

dreaming of old days of strength and beauty.

If only the gossamer threads didn’t break.

 

The machine catches the mechanical voices

saying she got the job, she doesn’t hear

but she won’t have to make the choice

We all know it’s an impossible task.

 

Dad doesn’t smile when we walk away,

away from the money, from my mother,

the silence heavy with words we don’t say.

He just stares down the hall toward her.

 

I see them in his eyes, the memories,

ones he tries to hide behind dark eyelids

and hands that cover up what he sees.

But I see them, too, when she is asleep.

 

 

I watch, wishing she would come back to me,

Praying that she would become whole once more,

dreaming of old days of strength and beauty.

If only the gossamer threads didn’t break.