Mercy descends from grey drapes of rain on the horizon. She enters the shrine 'For Disabled Only,' doesn't come out for ages. Wind makes my hat into a bird, I taste metal and salt in the air. Here's to the Goddess of Soap and Water, to gloves and the imaginary safety we don. I call out, please keep your your gloves on and unlock the door and a man gives me a look. She emerges, relieved and smiling. She is blooming into the season of death, just as some have rehung Christmas stars to scare off the plague. She hands me her wrist and I pull one glove off cleanly. Then with that just bared hand, she fingers the other, still gloved, all the threat and germ of it, touches it like she did each couch and corner of her left home, her cinnamon jar, her old blue chair. Rest stop trucks groan and puff in unison. There is no grace to this attempt at duty. I mother her the best I can. She elevates her swollen feet in the backseat of the car.