The sun shines through the window,
dappling crepe paper hands—
a different kind of soft—
crossed with veins from a so-big heart
(clever and sweet and brilliant),
struggling with a Dora the Explorer puzzle.
Holding hands that once held others—
the memory of strength flowing gently from her fingertips—
the most exquisite melancholy.
And love, love, love woven in every cell of her body—
pouring out, wrapped around her like golden motes of sunshine,
of the holiest magic—
to ease the pain.
Transmute it, transform it, into something precious.
Something gentle. Something fierce.
As old as time itself
and stretching to eternity.
Love, love, love covers all.