The Wheelchair

The wheelchair rested in your room, empty.
The day was nothing but gloomy.
I bathed you and fed you, I remember distinctly.
“It’s cold,” you said faintly.
As I look in your way,
“The pain gets worse,” you’d say.
And with greatest dismay,
I called an ambulance that day.
When the ambulance arrived,
I sat by your side.
In fright was my mind,
“It’s another hospital ride.”
For months your were there,
And it was hard for us to bear.
Anticipated was the wheelchair,
for your return home to take you everywhere.
Clad in black and hands together as if warm,
My father returned home,
With flowers adorned,
Making all of us mourn.
The wheelchair at home,
Was going to be alone.
To my father on his 65th birthday, today.