8:15 each morning, crossing lawns, leaving size five footprints in the frosted grass. Warming hands with lotion soothing as my voice to heal a sewn-together knee. Last year to Chris I was Nurse Fuzzy and Fran was called Nurse Jane because she really is a nurse and did all proper, perfect, hide the heart beneath the white cap of the necessary professional. I flounder, scared now with B as then with C to move something the wrong way, cause more harm than help; especially now because here there is a future.
Leaving with slippers she can wear over a plastic heel if I can fix them and I can. Leaving with a check for service rendered and a heart heavy with the wish I didn’t need to take it.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology