I take off your glasses and wipe away today’s pursuits.
Stratus make way for cumulus.
Your vision always so clouded, yet you look up to search my distracted eyes and smile into them.
I take off your shoes and remove the plastic orthotics that cage your hot, sweaty feet.
I take off your socks to change them and, momentarily, your feet are free.
Your mobility dependent on these devices. Always and forever.
I’d offer you a drink of water but you have not learnt to take it. So you play with the syringe plunger as I tube feed you, directly into your stomach. How remarkable a thing that is – life!
Nine and a half years of it.
Taking your weight, I lower you to the floor to change you; imagining the equipment we will one day be gifted, (for it will be a gift), to do this with dignity.
Probably the same smile you undoubtedly gave the person who did this for you at school today.
Clouds are beautiful.