I called them back

“I called them back” by Amanda Mariott

I call them back, again and again—

from 1952 or some long-lost friend.

Today I’m “Margie,” yesterday “Sue,”

tomorrow, maybe, I’ll be someone new.

They wander halls like whispered prayers,

forgetting rooms, but not the stares

of war-time loves, or babies born—

their minds are patchwork, soft and worn.

I tie their shoes, I fix their hair,

I answer questions hanging in air.

Yes, lunch is coming. No, you’re not alone.

Yes, sweet one, you’re safe. You’re home.

Some days are fog—thick, unmapped.

Others shine through like thunderclaps.

A joke, a song, a long-lost name—

a fleeting spark, a glimpse, a flame.

They’ve taught me more than books ever could—

how grief and grace can both taste good.

How a hand to hold can turn the tide,

how love can sit where memory hides.

I’ve cried in closets, screamed in cars,

nursed bruises, blessings, and hidden scars.

But still I show up, scrubs and all,

to catch them gently when they fall.

Because someone must remember them

when they no longer can.

And so I do—

again and again.