She was older than the sky,
And more wrinkled
Than the bark of
An oak tree.

Her hair was white as clouds,
Her voice was dry as sand,
And her fingers trembled
Like blades of grass
In the wind.

Day after day,
She lay in bed,
Packed snug and tight
Under patchwork quilts.

The warm blankets that
Wrapped her wrinkled skin
Came from thick soft cloth
She’d stitched together
Herself, many years ago.

On the dimmest days
When the wind came
And stirred the rain
Outside her window…

She’d lift a thin arm
To turn on a tired
Black-and-white TV
That stood cold
Beside her bed.

“Two children died today
In an elementary school shooting…”
Her face would frown
And quick she’d turn the
TV off.

“Lord, I do believe —
that I have lived Long enough,”

She began to say.
And this she spoke
Day after day, and
Night after night…

And you can be
Quite sure—
He heard her
Wishful words,

Because soon in the silence
Came the soft tap-tap
Of death upon her door.

And on the very day
She died…

All the blades of grass
Shivered in the wind,
And all the oak trees sighed,

And every single cloud in the sky
Was wispy and white
And soft as an old woman’s hair.

Andrea Roberts
College of Medicine