A daughter, a mother and a nurse, sleepwalks to work
On four hours’ sleep, as the moon peeps above the clouds.
The sun snuggles under the covers.
The familiar uniform bares her arms against the breath of December.
Clinical blue shrouds her worries of money troubles
And ailing family members
She wears a compassionate smile.
There are blisters on the soles of her feet,
From chasing the lost souls of the tired and incomplete.
Who spends hours contorted on hands and knees,
Gathering the scattered parts that the doctor left,
When he swished shut the curtain
on a father of four and his cancer.
Who holds the hands of those that die alone,
With a touch that soothes the heat of distress.
The reassuring grip of a mother until they slip into their final rest,
Lulled by whispered comforts, a musical box to a young girl’s ears
Twirling in the face of unknown fears.
Who stands in the shadow of death and brightens the room.
Who cradles dignity like a new born child
And life like a family heirloom.
Who sends her children off to school with one last kiss.
“Handle with care”.
Because she knows more than anyone how fragile this life really is.
Who comforts mourners with words she knows too well.
Who sees herself in the tears.
On the way home, she’ll hear commuters complain
About nightmare neighbours and the fares of the train.
She smiles. Because that’s the extent of their fears.
But if ever we need her, she will be there.
A hopeful arm through the fog of despair.
She can never be defined by words or verse.
But she is so much more than just a nurse.