Behind Closed Doors...

So gently she lifts her
onto the commode.
Light as a feather;
“No meat on your bones,”
the young woman jokes.

Like ring-a-ring-o-roses,
the bed-sores sting
as she winces. Glimpses
a face in the window. ‘Just
a reflection,’ she reassures.

“Thank heavens for that!
And the fact it’s not Tuesday...
when the window cleaner
comes,” and for a second,
she senses a smile and hears
the dim and distant echo
of an old, infectious chuckle
not heard in months.

“Hold still!” she tells her.
“I wouldn’t want you
to fall. Please...don’t
make me laugh, Mum.
It hurts.”