(for Arlene)
This morning I looked for it in my jewelry box
the medicine bear,
carved in pale turquoise
hung on a plain black cord.
Then I remember. You still have it.
Last December, we flew home for Hanukah.
It snowed the morning we left.
We packed bathing suits, wore t-shirts under winter coats.
I visited the hospital empty-handed.
The gifts we brought, unpacked.
Your black hair matted,
pillow drenched with sweat.
One eye turned to follow me.
Half your mouth slurred 'Lee-sha'
That was all I could understand.
The next day it was easier
to be angry.
The nurses fed you
pain pills in apple sauce.
Your mouth full of bitter white paste and fruit.
I made them clean you, page the doctors through the holiday weekend.
When we were alone, I took off my medicine bear,
placed it around your neck.
A week later, you were still wearing it.
I leaned forward and felt the weight of its absence against my chest.
Earth rained down
from the back of a shovel onto the plain pine box.
I choose a beaded necklace instead.
Tiny blue and purple shards throw reflections of the morning light.
Remnants of a stained glass window
strung into a different shape.