Abstract
I walk by her memory
at least twice every day
sitting in the same spot
just outside the main doors,
her motorized wheelchair
forever shining in
the mid-afternoon sun.
She sits among patients
coming and going, cars
picking up, dropping off,
people in scrubs on break,
the smokers, too, although
she doesn't smoke, hasn't
since 1962.
She's waiting for her ride
after an appointment
with a doctor other
than me, looking content
despite the ascites,
the dialysis, the
FDG-avid mass.
This is what I walk by
at least twice every day,
the last time I saw her,
before the appointment
she missed when she never
missed, before the phone call
confirming she was gone.