Mother's Day

I passed through the narrow hills of my mother's hips one cold morning and never looked back, until now, clipping her tough toenails, sitting on the bed's edge combing out the tuft of hair at the crown where it ratted up while she slept, her thumbs locked into her fists, a gesture as old as she is, her blanched knees fallen together beneath a blue nightgown. The stroke took whole pages of words, random years torn from the calendar, the names of roses leaning over her driveway: Cadenza, Great Western, American Beauty. She can't think, can't drink her morning tea, do her crossword puzzle in ink. She's afraid of everything, the sound of the front door opening, light falling through the blinds— pulls her legs up so the bright bars won't touch her feet. I help her with the buttons on her sweater. She looks hard at me and says the word sleeve. Exactly, I tell her and her face relaxes for the first time in days. I lie down next to her on the flowered sheets and tell her a story about the day she was born, head first into a hard world: the Great Depression, shanties, Hoovervilles, railroads and unions. I tell her about Amelia Earhart and she asks Air? and points to the ceiling. Asks Heart? and points to her chest. Yes, I say. I sing Cole Porter songs.Brother, Can You Spare a Dime? When I recite lines from Gone with the Wind she sits up and says Potatoes! and I say, Right again. I read her Sandburg, some Frost, and she closes her eyes. I say yes, yes, and tuck her in. It's summer. She's tired. No one knows where she's been.