This is a poem I shared for my mother’s funeral, which has never been shared since.
She lived the last nine years of a previously vibrant and useful life, paralyzed and in nursing care.

Your old hands no longer bake my birthday cake.
or make a special trip to the candy store for a chocolate cream Easter egg with my name in cracked sugar.
you no longer admire store bought blouses far beyond your means, or finger bolts of uncut material while dreaming new dress dreams.
Nor do you plan card parties, Sunday dinners or walk
your morning walk.
Yet your face still welcomes my arrival at your bed.
Your hand touches my cheek, and you say,”you are always 11.” I envelope your hand with mine and say, “And you are always 40!” 
That hand, my hand now, holds me, centering on the old love I bring each time I come.
Upon each leaving, I feel you slide away, and with you my childhood.