I say I love you,
when I wipe spit,
even thick with half-chewed flecks
and bitter-stinging medication,
from the chin
of the woman who changed my diapers.
I say I love you,
when I change the dressing on a sore,
oozing and angry red,
that refuses to close
on a foot
of the man who taught me to tie my shoe.
I say I love you,
when I fly across the country
just to sit and wait for 48 hours
in a hospital room,
holding a liver-spotted hand
that once helped me totter
across a toy-strewn carpet.
I say I love you,
when we walk in the house
and I catch her without knowing how,
the moment she starts to slip,
because what I feel
is so elemental to my being
that to see a bruise on her is like a stone
grinding into my own heel.
I say I love you,
when the nurse comes to take him
into the bathroom,
and I wave them away
because sometimes he cries
feeling so vulnerable
even though to him,
I am just "that nice girl"
who takes him to the bathroom.
I say I love you,
because your loves live on in me,
indelibly imprinted on my soul,
and so I will love you
without pride,
without condition,
without impatience,
without anger,
even when you have forgotten me.
And one day, I will stand
where earth is your bed
and grass is your blanket,
holding every precious moment
for as long as I can.
On that day, and every time
I think of you,
I will say,
"I love you."
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