Who Knows Best?

She was in the hospital
where I was born, but a different
floor. Different tiles,
where he first held me, the only
grandchild he was there
for at birth- and the last.
She was cruel, resting in the cocoon
of sympathy they had built her.
A fall, a tumor, I don't even know
the reason why she felt justified in her actions
they've always been wrong.
They've always tried to tear us apart.
Or so say the angry voices in the car
ride home.
But before that, the tears
the repression of words I needed to say
not to her. Never to her.
But to him, the comfort of beige leather
the smell of his sweaters
the army medallions and the untold stories.
All the words he's said to me and now I can't say one.
Can't tell him what he means to me, since he's not
the one on the bed
with veins spliced open.
I want to share my life with him,
but am forbidden.
It's her fault they say. It's her fault.
And that's probably true,
but as I run out into the hallway, lean against the cement
and let the tears clear out,
as he runs, as fast as he can, after me
holds me in his arms while I choke back sobs
trying to be the youthful one, trying to be strong
trying to tell him in the pressure of my fingers on his back
everything,
See who this is hurting?
See who this is hurting?

"Yes, see who she is hurting?" they scold him,
and we go home.