We took the same
positions 20 years ago
when the hospital called
to tell us our father
didn’t have much time
left. We rushed over then.
This time, mom is still alive.
Donna and Jaime, again
at the top of the bed.
She’s stroking mom’s
forehead, running fingers
through her hair. He’s talking
through tears about love,
how well she took care
of us. Me and John, down
by her knees quiet on each
side. He’s watching her face,
lines stitching into his cheeks.
My mouth’s making choking
sounds and whimpering,
my face ready to break.
One month later, mom’s back
In her apartment, bed ridden
in the basement of my sister’s
house, oxygen machines, nebulizer
treatments she routinely resists,
two doses of morphine a day,
groaning in pain when anyone
shifts her position, begging us,
help me, cover me, I’m cold
as we roll her on her side,
wipe her ass, spread cream
on her cheeks. Her face
relaxes when anyone visits,
her grandkids call. She smiles
when we joke, tease each
other, her. Making sense
maybe half the time,
she keeps asking for food,
a Carvel sundae with walnuts,
ham and cheese omelets,
olives, green and black, beef
soup her grandson Bobby
made, good as mine, she nods.
then forgetting what she ate
a few minutes after her mouth
is cleaned, blanket straightened.
She always asks me to stay.
I wait until she slips
into sleep before I leave.
I kiss her forehead, never
sure I’m hoping she wakes up.
