Scraping.

I scrape.
I turn it over.
I scrape some more.
I find another angle of light.
I realize I'm sitting sideways in my chair again.
Legs crossed, shoulders hunched.
I scrape.
I switch, from a plastic spoon to a toothbrush,
Improvised tools for something resembling an artist.
I worry the edges more.
Carve a little more off the left.
It's still all wrong, but better than starting over,
I remember to relax my shoulders again.
I deepen the spaces between the fingers,
Hollow out the arch of the foot a little more.
I look up and realize another hour has gone by,
I know I have other things to do,
Something else to think about, but I
Just want to finish this.
This one thing.
A small thing, just hands and feet in plaster
A crooked heart shape and some pastel acrylic paint
I can glue a flower over the part that broke off,
I was never any good at arts and crafts.
I scrape.
My mind is thankfully consumed with this task
Not with the antibiotic I should be giving,
Not with the charting I should be doing,
But with scraping.
Rubbing away chunks of plaster to
Just.
Make.
It.
Right.
This, a small thing but so important,
Maybe the only evidence this woman will ever have that she was a mother.
That her baby, her pregnancy ever existed and ever meant anything
To anyone but her.
If this is all she will have left,
Of hope, of love,
Of the precious little girl she always wanted.
I want it to be perfect.
Or at least not quite so very wrong.
I scrape.
I keep chewing down the edges, this way and that and
Another hour has gone by before I realize
This isn't as much for her as it is for me.
As I can't bear to feel helpless
I need something, anything will do.
As if I could hold this ridiculous tiny tchotchke up
Against her litany of tragedies
As if pink-painted hands and feet could somehow soothe a
Broken, broken soul.
I scrape furiously
As if it would make a difference.

I spray a gloss over my artwork
(how appropriate.)
A child's work at best,
I lettered a lost name and date on the back,
Thinking as I did that maybe
Maybe she would see how much time and love I spent
Scraping.
And think for an instant that someone cared enough
To see that she had something nice
If it could be called nice
In a terrible storm of a world.
That it wouldn't be patronizing or pitiful
But somehow help a little

As we both move on.

Here.
Here is a woman in need.
Missing more than a few teeth, covered in scratches and insect bites.
Afraid and alone.
Appears older than stated age.
Appears 45.
I guess her age at 38.
I find out she's 30.
A year and a half older than I.
Here, a reminder of how different my life could be.
Here is a woman.
"Positive for meth"
"Lives in a motel," comes the report.
Needs love.
Needs hope.
Shooed away from other safe places that are made immune to basic charity by their haughty ethics and sterile policies.
I am glad she is here.
We won't test her for drugs, or whisper down our noses.
We won't hide our judgement between her vital signs.
She said "I was taking better care of myself. I was eating every day."
Every. Day.
I want to take better care of her than any private patient. I want to give her a shower and warm blankets and a quiet place to do the secret and sacred things that women do.
A dignified place to say goodbye.
I want to care for her in this moment. I want her to know a little love in a hard, hard world.
I know I can't change her. I know her days are filled with drugs and suffering and men who would take anything they can from her.
I know she isn't likely to find a way up.
But I can give her comfort and dignity.
I can give her the finest nursing care while she loses her baby.

Here is a woman in need,
Deserving of love.