Worry Lines

May 20

By Mali Delargy

Let's call her Lydia, a social worker.
Thick skinned, honest and direct,
a tough job and enough grit under her nails
to prove it.
When they clapped for her, she would say it
wasn’t for her, it was for them.
The ones in the skin-bruising masks.
She didn’t risk her life on the front line
but neither did I.
When my exams were cancelled,
I was given
nothing
but sympathy
(I was elated not to sit them)
while her patients died of
loneliness.
that sadness
rooting and settling in bone
could only get worse
from March to June.
How I watched her soothe her worry lines
over a glass of wine
or two.
Her patients were clients,
which I always found odd.
Perhaps because their stay
would be longer,
less immediate,
lest the dreaded word -sectioned-
seep out over the dinner table
(of course, in highest confidentiality, nameless)
and I’d know her day had been hard.
A text from Dad to warn me.
Lydia's had a hard day, could you make sure the kitchen’s
tidy before she gets home? 17:32 sent
The gentle rhythm
of the washer as she walks in
and a meek smile
so not to be in the way.