myrtle jean (version 2)

She is sitting in a recliner rocker,
grey eyes stare blankly beyond.
A purple lap rug that bears her name covers hips replaced years ago.
Blue-grey hair, once fashioned into proud curls, hangs limply against her scalp. Her shoulders shrug forward,
no longer expectant.

Without warning arthritic hands grasp her skirt.
Curved and worn fingers, now nimble in action execute flawless pleats.
Her mind is ticking again.
The fabric is folded in perfect centimeter-wide batches and just as quickly dropped.
The task forgotten.
Shoulders hang.

“How’s Hilda” she asks. Her eyes don’t budge from the blank canvas in front of her.

“Hilda’s past Mum.” This script has been rehearsed a thousand times before.

It’s a Tuesday, but who cares.
The lights are dim here everyday.
I walk the cold corridor in search of Myrtle Jean’s missing ugg boot.