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“I feel just like a young girl again,” My dying mother whispered, “Doctor, do something!” I say. Result, a futile blood transfusion. Her first lucidity for days. No painkilling drugs talking now, But someone’s youthful blood, Course through a wasted body, Giving mother transient hope. “I feel just like a young girl again”. And for a while, she believed me When I said she was not dying. But she was and I was lying. She was dying. That flush of youth, so brief, Left like a thief, with hope captive. Now, at seventy-eight, her age then, Transfused by hope and good health. I often feel like a young girl again, But often transfusion goes, so soon, Like a thief, with hope its captive. Old preconceptions intrude, Like “Act your age,” And I try for a while Until a rainbow, A starry night, Or a tender touch Pulse through my being And I feel, "just like a young girl again". -(Patricia Fiske)--- Re-printed from Patricia’s chapbook “Late Bloomer”