Leaving

by Ann Chinnis

Where I visit you now, 

sits on a hill rainbowed 

by sassafras in October.

A one-lane road dead-ends

at Harmony Assisted Living.

Where I visit you now, the lobby 

never misses a season: pumpkins 

painted with black cat faces,

a candy-corn colored paper 

taped to your door–

“Hospice Comfort Pack:” Morphine,

Atropine, stool softener, Xanax.

I lean over your plaid 

recliner to hug you, friend

of my heart laughing into my hair, 

I have met someone here. Timing

is everything. We eat Cheetos,

catch up on nieces, their babies.

I won’t go through it again.

       “Chemo, you mean?”

I remember hiking with you

in a forest of hornbeam,

asking, “What do you wish for your 

fortieth birthday?” Tipping your face

to the twisted bark, stubborn

orange, Grace to face winter.

My visit over, we crunch 

deep-red leaves of the black gum

tree that muffles your walker’s 

scrape on the pavement. Determined 

to walk me to my parking space,

to tell me good-bye. Limping

past scarecrows, he calls to you,

places his hand over yours

to steady your walker, as softly 

as a sycamore peeling. 

You wink at me, buttered leaves

of the white hickory tree 

spilling around us.