I am not too surprised when our oldest
let a wound
on her 43-year-old foot fester
for two months until it sagged
to a blue mush,
until that leg was chiseled
down to half today.
Now I can’t decide whom to blame
for this latest catastrophe.
She wasn’t dealt a good hand at birth
my husband always said
about her disability—this mind
that can’t count change,
and trusts too easily.
But I was the one who let her leave
the board and care home to live
with the boyfriend.
Still, how much blame is mine when
she kept running away
to him anyway?
I can’t blame the boyfriend either.
He does all the laundry, all the shopping,
all the cooking
despite being legally blind
and on dialysis.
Blame isn’t black or white.
It bleeds across a spectrum,
in pale grays and starchy whites,
and bruised blues
like a rainbow.
Blame leads to talking to yourself
and feeling stuck
and wondering if things had gone
better for her
if my husband hadn’t died.
But blame is also myth-making.
And offers second chances, ways to build
one more version
of the past.
