When we noticed her nights were short

And she could hardly have a meal

That’s when we really knew

It was all becoming real

She stopped taking extra shifts

Or even showing up at all

But I don’t think she really knew

It was all becoming real

Our mom grew sick with worry

While she grew sick with fear

The shaking, the sounds, the shadows

It was all becoming real

“I need help. I need help. I need help,”

Outside white, steel doors she cried

Was she safe? Would it last? Would she heal?”

It was all becoming real.