How can one help a tormented soul find peace of mind in the twilight of his time?

An ageless spirit would escape a one-way place;
('Rest Haven' nursing home - not death’s eternal rest);
would liberate enfeebled body’s fettered straits;
the flesh’s wait that weighs on time;
the sustainment that confines.
Grievous frustration continually strafes
an old man’s grasp of sad necessity.
The drives he thrives on – deeper needs—
deny the aches of muscle bone and mind.
Where beyond salvage, he’d repatriate;
there, repair the sores of memory.

An eighty something, still a man, the kind
loves his care-giving comely, but wants out of there.
Come with him!
What can he offer? What, do for himself? Where can he go?
Nothing. Not much. Nowhere.
In lucidity knows he needs round-the-clock care:
frail, walks but has spells;
falls rising from bed,
spills from his wheelchair.

What’s to show for his four score and more?
He’s stuck there,
where ‘with nothing means for nothing’;
where, in a single sweep, eyes encase semi-private space;
the stuff of closets, drawers and book case.
Still dreams--big deals lost, won, and almost done.
So what? Would it change the outcome?
What counts? The girl in the portrait, in the flesh
at the foot of his bed, (his offspring);
her sister, their mother, (ex-spouse)?
The ruins of relationships recovered on spot;
solitaire, their efforts of solace, their despair.
Tears well and slide from his eyes while he eats.
Regrets, recrimination, self-flagellation
for what went wrong – he couldn’t help.
Semi-aware? If he could hear...
“What’s done is done. All is forgiven.”

© Helga Ross 2003, 2006