With gentle hands and gentle thoughts
   You wash and dress her,
   Like she were your own mother.
She fights sometimes.
   But with infinite patience
   You help her sit in a chair.
He hates it.
   He's lost his independence.
   Now he's a baby again.
But you sit with him,
   Quiet, sometimes talking,
   With a friend's touch most of all.

©2010, John A. Mills