Just A Volunteer

Might you be her son, she asked
Each week I see you here
Oh no, she’s not my Mom I said
I’m just a volunteer

Do you know how much she waits
For the day that you arrive
How she listens for your voice
Her senses more alive

Do you know she checks her watch
Many times before
You arrive to visit her
And enter through her door

Do you know she speaks of you
When you are not there
And tells us stories you have told
Tales she likes to share

Do you see the smile she gives
To you when you are here
How she loves to hold your hand
Your presence is so dear

Do you know you’re in her prayers
That she says every night
A prayer to keep yo safe from harm
When you are out of sight

Do you know how much you mean to her
The difference that you make
By chasing boredom from her hours
And her loneliness forsake

These are the gifts you give to her
Every time you’re here
And that is why there’s no such thing
As “just a volunteer.”

About oldmainer

I am a retired manager living in Southern Maine and a would be writer of poetry, narratives, short stories, and random opinions, and that's how Oldmainer was born. Recently, I decided to try an experiment. I added photography to the mix, using only a cheap cell phone with a limited camera and the editing software that came with it, and added the blog site Inklings at poormanspoet.wordpress.com to showcase the results. So, feel free to use whatever you find interesting or worthy, but please honor the terms of my copyright when and if you do. They may not be much, but they are still a piece of me. I appreciate your checking me out and hope that you find something that will encourage a return visit. Thanks for stopping by.
This entry was posted in Aging, Friendship, Inspirational, Life, Love, People, Poetry, Reflection, Rhyme and tagged , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Just A Volunteer

  1. splitspeak says:

    This is so very touching.

    Love, Mehak

    • oldmainer says:

      Thank you. One of the staff at the nursing home told me some of these things about a lady I used to visit at the nursing home. We lost Bea at the ripe age of 102

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