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pontiac

Nurse’s Hands

Age 5
Bumps, scrapes, and bruises
Kisses were band aids
Kind words were medicine
And my nurse’s hands were smooth.

Age 18
Books, luggage, and my Pontiac
Tears of joy were tears of sadness
Hugs and kisses were delay tactics
And my nurse’s hands were proud.

Age 31
A pastor, a white dress, and my bride
The mother-son dance was a thank you card
The boy was a man
And my nurse’s hands were wrinkled.

Age 36
A hospital, a birth, and a death
The bassinette was pink
The coffin was black
And my nurse’s hands were cold.