You held my body,
teaching me words, pictures,
and rhymes,
"Did you ever think you'd see me like this?"

You were confident, dominant,
you were larger-than-life
"Did you ever think you'd see me like this?"

When Mom died, you grew smaller,
sadder,
I saw it in your eyes, felt it in your shoulders,
"Did you ever think you'd see me like this?"

You couldn't walk, couldn't hear,
You asked,
"Did you every think you'd see me like this?

"No," I lied.

"I never thought I'd see you like this."
Death took you
crying, I asked my husband,
"Did you ever think you'd see me like this?"

"No," he lied,
"I never thought I'd see you like this."