She Sits and Wonders Why 
By Milton Schorr, Family Member 

When I was one and thirty, to me a child was born. 
Laughter was her trademark, vivacity her norm. 

She grew to adolescence, a joy to see and hear, 
Bubbly, bright, attractive, by one and all held dear. 

When I was one and fifty, my little girl took ill. 
A glowing lass whose promise, life never meant to fill. 
"Schizophrenia," said the little man, in tone abrupt, severe. 
"How long?" I queried nervously, "a week, two months, a year?" 

"Oft times forever," droned the doc, in words that seared the soul, 
As he pronounced her sentence, to life without parole. 
Entrapped forever behind the bars of chemistry gone awry. 
Sullen, lost, bewildered, she sits and wonders why. 

And now I'm one and seventy, it's oh, so long ago. 
She lives in special places, to which ceaselessly we go. 
Heavier now the packages we carry to and fro, 
More halting now the steps we take, by going greatly slowed. 

And when I'm one and eighty, and too feeble, if alive, 
Who will go that extra yard, to help her to survive? 

Who'll provide this simple soul, that destiny forsook, 
With the comfort, love and oversight, the system overlooked?