Visitation

From the cot at the nursing home,

she looks at me this time with recognition,

& for a second, we touch,

knowing it’s time to cross the bridge.

I glimpse her as a girl again—

stomp-stomping

black high-buttoned shoes

to the quick lean strumming of banjo.

She twirls—

braids propelling

around & around,

hair clips glinting sunlight,

ankle-length skirt

ballooning colors.

Loose-skinned, blue-veined

hand soft against my arm,

she tells of the time

she ate taters & soup beans

with Eleanor Roosevelt;

of the night she danced with diamonds

on a coal miner’s hand;

of the son who lived

& of the son who died.

Trust floats us up

beyond plastic dinner trays,

stale green walls.