She is so young, 23 or 24, her cheeks ruddy with the pink only high mountain air can provide. She has a toddler, left behind in another highland town, in the care of others. Her name is a variation of gazelle, though in those parts there have only been sambar and spotted brown deer. She is one of three caregivers who feed and change my mother, who turn her in the hospital bed to slide clean sheets or adult diapers under her. They are more patient than daylight, more hopeful than warm washcloths, the thick puree of blended food, neon signs blinking in the street below. They sing and coo, console. Now she is their child, though never chided.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
