Rows Of Dodder Gray Poem by Lynn W. Petty

I walked along the corridor passing the gathered,
Who sat within their wheelchairs, waiting.
Their faces were devoid of any thought.
They had that vague and blank Alzheimer's stare.
I found her sitting there, my friend, among the rows
Of dodder gray, she took my hand.
Through stroke-impeded speech, she strove
To formulate her thoughts into a spoken sound.
I read into the fear and pleadings in her eyes
The thoughts I thought she might have said,
Could she but speak:

'Is this the victory of the battle we call life?
Is this the prize of living, having lived
Those struggles, depressions, wars, and tears,
The heartbreaks we are forced to bear?
Is this my compensation for good that I have done,
The family I have raised? Is this the gift of living
By His Word? '

She felt betrayed, by God, that she must bear
The embarrassment of needing someone's help,
With the most elemental of her physical needs.
She stared at me, expecting some profound response.
I failed. Embracing her, we melded into one.
We together sat and wept.