We're home, and they still
won't let me see her hands.
Our neighbor doesn't
have to help with bandages
now, and somehow it's not
the process it used to be.
Ow!
Holy Crap!
She's learning new words
and she talks matter-of-factly
as my brother tells stories,
distracting her from the gauze,
the sterile, ointment-soaked
strips of cotton that my mom
wraps around each tender finger.
I falled in the fire-pit and
burnt my hands.
Eventually they let me
help, using gummy scissors
to cut the cloth into
manageable strips. They smell
pungently of hospitals and
rubbing alcohol, chemicals
that don't belong in our house,
or anywhere near someone
as young as two years old.
She giv'd me em n'ems
cuz I brave!
No comments:
Post a Comment