On Sundays at Serenity Hills
people donning frayed robes
and worn slippers hobble down
dim corridors clutching cold
rails to visit frightened friends
who don’t remember their names
or the day or the reason or the
why they cannot go for a walk
On Sundays cluttered halls
play host to warm metal meal
bins sitting idle while vile
canvas laundry baskets vex
harried nurses pushing locked
narcotic carts stocked to
sedate strident clients who
behave like craving addicts
That Sunday her mom leaves
with my bride holding the hand
that wiped her childhood tears
and walked her to school
and punished and protected
and was all that mattered
to the daughter who could not
let go of the woman she lost
That Sunday my words fell
like futile bombs on numb
ears that shutout the muttering
promises of a well meaning
groom who like a callous fool
begged his bride to refrain and
to compose and to be calm and
to cease her niggling babble
This Sunday at Serenity Hills
another daughter weeps and
another daughter begs and
another daughter prays and
another daughter pleads and
another daughter cries for
the mother whose love and
loss will sear her heart forever
Patrick Fogarty is a short story author and poet. Born and raised in the south Bronx, his stories and poems are infused with personal experiences. He is a recent graduate of Yavapai College’s Creative Writing Program. His stories have been published in Threshold—the literary magazine of Yavapai College. Patrick and his bride Susan reside in the mountains of Central Arizona.