Porcelain Butterfly
Anna Delamerced
the other day, at 9:45 in the evening
I found out she passed away;
her neighbor told me in a brief email.
they had lived down the hall from one another
in this one-story home for the elderly
surrounded by tall pine trees that never fade in the summer
we shared the same birthday
separated by seven decades of life
of which I only caught a glimpse
her name, the name of a flower
her glasses, the way they frame her brown eyes
pieces of her sit on my windowsill
how I wish I told her so many things
the things unseen
how there’s more to life
than the one we experience right now
a new home that pales in comparison
to the other side of the Atlantic
how I wish I told her so many things...
this morning I am coming to visit
her neighbor, the one who emailed me.
I park the car and take a deep breath.
a book. a snow globe. a card, signed
with her scraggly signature.
I never throw those things away there is good news I can’t help but share,
can’t help but tell someone else
I have learned through tears and apologies—
I don’t want to live in fear
of what someone else may think of me
if I tell them about You
I can still picture how she lounged
in her wheelchair, watching TV,
the oxygen tank right next to her I long for the day
when the grave clothes fall from me
and I hear Your voice, saying come.
the first time we met, she narrated
tales of growing up in a country
on the other side of the Atlantic I passed by her old room today.
room #20. new faces fill the place.
the porcelain butterfly still hangs on her door.
I was assigned to be her doctoring student
check her vitals once a month, my stethoscope
to her heart, sit and listen
to her worries, her childhood stories Anna Delamerced is a medical student at the Warren Alpert Medical
School of Brown University.
I’d knock and hear “come in, my dear”
come in, there’s so much room, come in.
I can still see the porcelain butterfly hanging on her door
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