My heels click on the newly polished floor
The hall elongates as I walk forward
Just left Mrs. Pulaski's room
Her quiet eyes touched the back of my head
She said I looked tired
Needed more rest
I had just held her fingers
Frail, gnarled, her skin a pearly sheen
They were like ornaments, now
Like collectibles in an antique store
But I had met her robust grown sons the other day
She must have grabbed them by their collars when they fought
Pulled clothes off the line with a flick of her wrist
Rolled cabbage leaves with chopped meat
But she asked how I was feeling again
And we exchanged weak smiles across that touch
As I gently pulled away, she squeezed, then let go
I did not turn back