I wheeled a resident to the hallway window.
It was during COVID.

Their daughter stood in the dead flowerbed
because there was nowhere else to stand.

It was winter.

The flowers had long ago collapsed
over the dark, hard earth.

My resident sat bundled up,
cocooned in a white hospital blanket,

shaking from age, or fear,
or simply to stay warm.

I use my own phone.

One spoke into the receiver.
The other listened through the glass.

Words crossed the speaker,
the window kept them apart.

How are you?    I’m okay.
What’s new?     Nothing much.

The same answer,
week after week.

Their daughter talked about grandchildren,
weather, cost of groceries, life beyond

those closed doors…in this case, a window.
My resident, who had very little to report.

I stood beside them, holding my phone
mending their bridge.

When the calls end, we watch them
walk back to their car. Then drive away.

I push the wheelchair down the hall
thinking about the wrong side of the glass.

To one day

I may be on the inside, trapped
searching for something new to say.

And someone else, much younger than me
will hold a phone between us

While my grown child stands
where the flowers used to grow.