Bright Little Blackbird

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Eliza Blackburn

had black sparkling eyes

just like a little Blackbird.

She carried her 

clunky plastic purse

over her right arm,

as if she was just going off

to  market.

She always wore an apron

over her frock,

as she had all those busy years 

spent cooking and cleaning

for her family.

Her hair was still black, no silver,

worn long and tied back,

a source of pride 

among all the other white-haired residents,

but she was no longer "there" 

enough to know.

Every morning,

after breakfast,

she'd begin. 

She'd come in one door 

of the big kitchen and ask:

"Has anybody seen Jeannie Worthington?"

Jeannie was her daughter, 

who came every afternoon

at four o'clock.

"She'll be here later, Eliza,"

we'd say and, every time,

she'd reply, sweetly,

"Okay. Thank you".

Out the other door she'd go,

then back around, 

popping brightly in 

the first door, to inquire brightly:

"Has anybody seen Jeannie Worthington?"

"She'll be here later, Eliza. 

At four o'clock."

This went on all day.

In the afternoon, she would be

getting very tired

from all the walking,

all the asking,

all the waiting.

One afternoon,

I gently suggested 

she might like to sit down.

New thought.

She sat, then in a moment 

of rare clarity,

looked at me and

in her eyes I could see she was, 

if only briefly,

in that moment, there.

"So what'm I supposed to do with it?"

she asked, with great humour,

and we shared a chuckle,

woman to woman,

at the general absurdity of life.

Then,

"Has anybody seen Jeannie Worthington?"

and she was on her feet

and circling,

purse over her arm, 

once again.

posted for dVerse, where Karin's prompt is to use repetition in a poem. In this case, the subject, rather than the poet, employed the repetition.........this is a little lady who lived in the care facility I worked in in the '80's in Kelowna.