A Reminder of Things Forgot

 by Samantha Farley


 

Faintly, I remember the ending hours
when sunshine provided a welcomed pause
from the stench of Clorox
and stillness
clinging, relentless
to my insides.

Gently, the wheelchair would glide
as an extension of your body
through the courtyard,
a thick expanse of green
and reminders of God.

From the rubber handles,
I could feel your inhales—
tainted with timidity—
I could feel your lungs collapse
like folding chairs
and your ribs clatter
with the shallow swells of disruption.

Inside a column of light,
I would plant your sallow complexion
(vaguely resembling something
of phylo-dough
and cellophane)
and sit across from you,
my hips hitting the cement of the bench,
a clamber of bones that shook me.

In those final hours,
the sunshine washed us with normalcy,
dried us of reality,
and we’d let words hum and vibrate—
sweet and slick—
easily through breathes of breeze.

Humor would catch the corners
of your mouth,
unaware.
And familiar crevices would cut
through the tired landscape
of your face
as though our world was free
of jaundiced skin
and premature endings.

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