She had a fall,
I tell the family.

It’s a noun,
I want to point out,
not a verb
but a thing,
that is not over
in the way that actions
come and go
but nouns like this one
linger
heavy
dragging
at the hem
of her life.

Eighty-three and broken
not in pieces
but a piece
of her is missing,
the one that planned simple things,
that made herself lunch,
that trusted in
tomorrow.

But she asked for her lipstick today
which is a good sign,
and I bring her hot rollers from home
and we decide we like the nurse
named Duncan the best
because he winks
when he gives her Tylenol
as though this is just a cover
for some kind of heist.

I tape the kids’ drawings
on her wall
and I leave my phone by her pillow,
playing a private concert
of Elton John.

But I see the way
her eyes look past me,
out the hospital window.

People ask if they should bring
food or flowers,
but she doesn’t need
those nouns,
I try to explain,
she just needs one that is huge,
that can take up all the space
in this hospital room
and roar and push the fall
and the pain
and the fear away.

When you come visit,
won’t you please
bring bags and bags
of hope.