So I Told Her

She knocked on my
emotional door and I
answered without hesitation.
I presented my presentation
in the deadpan style I had grown
used to.  She sat so prim in her
wheelchair with her silvery perfect
hair; head bowed and occasionally
nodding.  I couldn't see her eyes -
the color of whiskey and aged
oak.  She wrapped the raggedy
facility blanket around her like
a mink cloak.  I ended and shrugged
my shoulders like shaking off heavy
boulders.  She looked up at me then -
her perfect face starting to cringe.
Tears welling up like someone had
finally let loose of the dam and decided
it was time for the river to flow freely.
Her perfect shoulders trembling as she
looked at me in disbelief.  God, how I
wanted to run after ruining her perfect world.
This perfect old girl.  She sobbed and nodded
her head once.  Her racking sobs quaked and
shook something out of me as I mumbled something
about regretting even telling her.  She raised a hand
as if God would somehow reach down and bless
us both.  She smiled and nodded again. 
Then she told me about her sister.  Her sister and
the awful emotional twister.  So I told her.  And
so she told me.  As we sat kicking our knee for the
sake of harmony.  There in a crowded gym.