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Recovery
I can still
see the corridors, each one an idea …
Where how
far you walk is marked out
with dull
photos of places I don’t want to go to,
and you,
pained and aged beyond your years
creep
backwards towards your rebirth –
Where every
touch is a gift,
All the
small chores, tissues, towels,
bottles
brought, are love made manifest –
more than I
can ever do and so much less
Where,
somewhere, all I ever knew
is made
miniscule but meaningful,
step by step
pacing out the present, by you,
beat by
beat, one more photo every day
And oh,
those drab photos remind me
how
beautiful it is back home.
© Helen
Ramoutsaki 2007 |
