My Life As... Poetic Bloomngs

 

My Life as a Caregiver

 

Of a two-year-old with autism.

He bounced around on his toes.

Gurgled at shiny doorknobs.

He said my name twice to his mom.

 

A twelve-year old with twisted body.

She couldn’t hear, see or talk.

I’d hold her on my lap and rock her.

Somehow, I felt privileged.

 

An old man with a loud voice.

Liked to play peek-a-boo at night.

Twiddled newspapers for fun.

One time, he winked at me.

 

A woman with a 200-watt smile.

She’d laugh like goofs were slapstick comedy.

She couldn’t talk, but we’d say hello

from our bedrooms each morning.

 

A man in his late thirties

who could say, “Coo-coo-cookie.”

Liked to walk and play noisy toys.

Would hug me and give me clicky kisses.

 

A lady in a wheelchair.

I helped her with housework and meals.

She caught COVID and died.

She was one of my dearest friends.

 

The boy with autism is back, now 25.

Watching Santa’s Coming to Town

for a year now. I have it memorized.

He pats my face with affection.

 

A stroke-survivor, man in his sixties.

Can walk with a walker and talk.

Laughs and cries a lot—my husband.

I don’t think caregivers retire.