The Kindness of Strangers

by Kathleen Murphey

It’s 2019, and looking at the news makes me despair.

But the kindness of strangers gives me hope and a reason to care.

I was at the hospital today, for linger complications of surgery, chemo, and radiation.

I’m nine months post-radiation, and it may take another seven, if I’m lucky,

to return to a semblance of normal.

I rode the elevator down to the parking garage with a woman

in a wheelchair and her son.

We exchanged pleasantries, because that’s what polite people do.

As we left the elevator, I wished her good luck and safe driving. 

She stopped me, embraced me, and said, “Give me a kiss.”

We kissed, and she said, “God bless you. God bless you all the days of your life,”

and I walked away with tears running down my cheeks.

The state of the country, the world, and even my feeble health, faded away;

hope filled my heart. The kindness of strangers made me feel that way.

* * * * *

Kathleen Murphey is an Associate Professor at Community College of Philadelphia.  In addition to academic writing for regional and national conferences, she has been writing poetry and short stories, particularly alternative fairy tales.  Writing in a Woman’s Voice published “The Frog and the Transgender Prince” (12/6/2017), for example, and both Writing in a Woman’s Voice and The Voices Project have published her poetry.  She has self-published a collection of her fairy tales called Other Tales (available through Amazon).  More information about her, her work, and Other Tales can be found at her Website,www.kathleenmurphey.com. 

Comfort Care

by Traci Mullins

I push another dose of morphine through Jerome’s IV. I’m giving it more frequently now, chasing it with Ativan, but nothing is working. Jerome has been restless all morning, and I know what I’m seeing.

Hospice nurses call it terminal agitation—a type of delirium that sometimes occurs in people who are dying. As a nurse practitioner, I’ve treated it successfully with drugs many times before. Why isn’t the usual protocol kicking in? I begin to wonder if some of my colleagues are right. Does agitation at the end of life have emotional and spiritual components, too?

Jerome’s family members have been dangling at the edges of the room, their anxiety hovering around them like a swarm of moths.

“Let’s try surrounding Jerome with some things that have brought him joy and comfort in the past,” I suggest.

Jerome’s brothers confer in whispers. The older one, Marlon, disappears and returns shortly with a pad filled with sketches. He shows me the people, animals, cars, trees, buildings…and dozens of motorcycles. “Jerome can draw anything,” he says. 

“I found this, too,” he adds, holding up a toy monkey that has seen better days. Most of its stuffing is gone, and its faded fur attests to how many times it’s been through the washing machine. “Jerome loved this when he was little,” Marlon says. Sheepishly he adds, “I’ve teased him for keeping it.”

Marlon lays the monkey on Jerome’s chest and strokes his brother’s chocolaty skin. Other relatives bring their offerings: a soft blanket monogrammed with JAS, photographs of happier days, the family cat. I push more drugs.

We call hospice care “comfort care,” and Jerome does seem to be soothed by our various ministrations. Within ten minutes, his breathing slows and calm settles deep into his bones. I know what this means, too.

“Often,” I say quietly, “when people have the kind of agitation Jerome had, it’s as though they’ve been in a battle. They’re tired, they’re finally at peace, and that makes their transition to the next life easier. I don’t want you to be surprised if this happens.”

A sacred silence falls as the vigil begins. I know we could be here for hours, but I don’t think so.

Soon Jerome’s breathing changes again—fewer breaths, farther apart, as though what is left of his body needs only puffs of air to sustain it. As the minutes tick by, Jerome seems to levitate, he’s so light now. He takes one last breath, then crosses over.

With tears streaming down their faces, his brothers look on as Jerome’s parents lean down to kiss their baby goodbye. Thirteen is too young to die.

Caring

by deb y felio

There is a little more I found

scraping hard and deep

putting aside what I thought I needed

like a meal, a bath and sleep.

There is a little more I found

a scrap here and there

putting together shards and pieces

when I thought all was bare.

There is a little more I found

but I never know how long

before the supply is emptied

before everything is gone.

But as long as there’s a glimmer

of something I can do,

I will continue to offer

my caring each day for you.

All women are mothers

by Roberta Brown

All women are mothers. We create beauty in the world. We birth life of all kinds—other humans, yes, but also art, music, literature, kindness, community. We feed those around us and keep them well. We listen and support, agitate and protest, work the earth, and build upon it. Flowers spring to life under our touch. Birds fly to our feeders, and hungry people to our kitchens. We gather into our homes lost animals and lost souls alike, and when we are lost, we continue creating anyway. We keep cooking, and writing, and building, and singing, and hiking, and running, and digging. We keep making things beautiful. We animate everything and everyone around us—because we are women. Happy Mother’s Day.

Late Night, Last Night

by deb y felio

Last night from slumber I awoke

the muse had landed on my bed

I floundered for pen and paper near

to record all she said

beautiful words, poetic form

inspired with angelic voice

in the dark I scribbled fast

trusting memory - not a choice

page upon page until no more

I laid down my soon dried pen

exhausted from creative work

I slept to dream again

In the cool of morning light

the pages lay in wait

I picked them up, began to read

what came to me so late

the beauty of the muse’s gift

the melody once sung

was given to me and I wrote

apparently in tongues

for what I saw in light of day

instead of inspiration

was some foreign alphabet

in need of interpretation.

Two mothers all alone in a sandbox

by Sandy Rochelle

We sit together—unidentified allies—two mothers in a sandbox.

She with a child missing arms and me with you.

Different in your own way.

We understand each other she and I

but we speak only of inconsequential things.

Trying to mislead God into believing

that we no longer mind.

We are cast away alone.

Away from the chosen.

Silently becoming children ourselves.

Listeners of the wind.

Friends of no one.

Sitting silently in a circle sifting sand.

Survivors in an undeclared war.

* * * * *

Sandy Rochelle is a poet-actress and filmmaker. Individual publications include: Moon Shadow Sanctuary Press/ Formidable Woman, Connecticut River Review, West Wind Review, Spirit in the Words, and Tuck Magazine. Her book of poetry, Soul Poems, was published by Finishing Line Press. Sandy is the recipient of the Autism Society of America's Literary Achievement Award. She has the honor of being named, New York State, ''Mother of the Year.'' Website:  http://sandyrochelle.com

The Calm Blue

by Leticia Rodriguez

Being young is a state of mind.

Age is just a number if you don't mind.

I learned long ago and I made up my mind

to ever hold true to my values, beliefs,

and even my morals, and it's a good thing

because the hands of time I cannot rewind.

It may seem in this vida that I have lived

wrong and maybe even hard and some

looking in on my life, they may be sad,

and some even mad,

but trust me, it wasn't that bad.

I've learned so much and shared much

of my sorrows.

In doing so I've helped many young and old

feel better about tomorrow.

So take heed in what I say

because life isn't ours, it is only borrowed.

I'm a strong, intelligent, resilient, determined

and, yes, even stubborn woman.

My life has made me hard,

yet I'm soft as the clouds I face,

my gente, and I'm oh so proud.