During Visiting Hours

There was something about the aide’s voice—
not gentle but comforting
in its very plainness

(like Shaker furniture
or glass milk bottles
on a stoop)

that opened my mother’s eyes
to the quickly fading flowers
in my hand— the color

of spots of blood on the sheet
the nurses had somehow missed.
The smell

of anesthetic lingered,
like the scent of my dead father’s
aftershave, but the voice was asking

such a simple question (tea
or some juice?) that my mother politely
returned to life and answered.

—Linda Pastan