Miss Ruth

 

Sally Renata

That day she sat on the edge of her bed in a gown,

her hair a halo of white, escaped from what had been

a well kept bun.

 

That little girl was here at my window today, she said.

I remembered the day before, brushing the ants

from her bed, vacuuming to make sure she could see

they were out of her room for good.

What did she want? I asked.

 

I believe she wanted to play, she said smiling,

almost embarrassed.

 

Do you want to go out if she comes back?

Should I let her in?

 

Lord no, not today, I have too much to do.

She then lay down. I covered her legs with the pink

crochet throw.

 

Her world was pink.  Pink roses covered the walls

and pink carpeted the floor. Her porcelain skin

and rose tinted cheeks were a testament to Ponds,

cold cream, the essence permeated her entire room.

 

The next day I came and could tell she was ruffled.

She was pale and disheveled. Her gown hadn’t been

changed.

 

That girl got into the house. I don’t know how.

I thought the nurse locked the door! She seemed

more confused than afraid.

 

What does she look like Miss Ruth? Did she say

what she wanted?

 

Well, I believe it’s your granddaughter. She didn’t say

a word. She just stood at the end of my bed and just...

beckoned. She wants me to go with her.

 

Her eyes turned bright.  Maybe tomorrow she said,

and she did.