She looks through her old sketch pads, studies
of faces, mountains, dried flowers.
She asks me to bring colored pencils.

We sharpen three dozen,
sort them by hue,
arrange them in a row of glass jars
on a sturdy white table.

Most days, she practices
walking. Three times up and down the hallway,
her aide by her side, reminding her
to lift her left leg,
keep her walker close.

The slowness
of moving under water.

She has to stop, catch her breath.
One down, two to go, the aide says.
Do you need another rest break?

Four years like this.
Hours swallowed
by the gravity of her body.

The sun slants through her large windows,
lights up the jars of colored pencils,
the white table, the blank pages.