Visiting Mom<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n

Mom, 97, fell between
\nChristmas and New Years,
\nbreaking her hip.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s been in the assisted living
\nmemory care ward two years now.
\nBefore the tumble when I use
\nto visit she\u2019d be dozing off
\nin the common room,\u00a0 where
\nthe electric log in a faux fireplace
\nnever burns but still glows red,
\nany comfort given incidental.<\/p>\n

When I gently touched
\nher boney arm, her shiny eyes
\nopened. She\u2019d exclaim, Timothy.<\/p>\n

Today she\u2019s in the new wheel chair,
\nwith the high back so her neck stays straight,
\nlegs immobile in braces, knees unbent,
\nlong scar like a streak of tar on her shin,
\nthe mark of the fall from the last time
\nshe tried to stand. The doctor\u00a0 said
\nthe fracture would heal but warned
\nthe anesthesia could exacerbate her dementia
\nlong after the operation, maybe forever.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s wide awake, reading the paper,
\nthe daily newspaper, the actual paper,
\nthat celebrated Thanksgiving by killing
\nthe jobs of a third of its staff, and
\nlike so many others, is rumored to close.<\/p>\n

Mom\u2019s now the only person
\nI know who regularly reads
\nnews that\u2019s not online.<\/p>\n

Death lurks here,
\ndiligent yet patient.
\nIn less than a glimpse
\nI see his shadow fade
\nquickly down the hall.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s light in mom\u2019s eyes,
\nbut no bright twinkle,
\nshe asks, do I know you?<\/p>\n

You don\u2019t know me?
\nShe shakes her head,
\nbewilderment flushing her face.
\nShe\u2019s confused but glad.<\/p>\n

Leaning into her good ear
\nI say, I am your son, Timothy.
\nYou know my son Timothy?
\nI am Timothy. At least she laughs
\nat how her mind works in this new way,
\nelliptical bends she cannot trace.<\/p>\n

She knows she has a son who is me,
\nshe hasn\u2019t forgotten my name, but
\nthe fact I am here and I am he
\nis as incomprehensible as rain or sky
\n\u2014just a fact that\u2019s always there,
\nany understanding irrelevant to its existence,<\/p>\n

which is when I wonder if death
\njust floated through the adjacent room.
\nThose gaps in her thoughts, the curves
\nto nowhere may be him waiting for
\nthe pause that lasts long enough
\nfor an artery to burst or the lungs to petrify
\nor another cellular disruption and whatever
\nglisten in her eyes dims completely.<\/p>\n

She gazes at the paper again, licking her index finger
\nto turn the pages. Obits, comics, crossword\u2026
\nshe\u2019s not reading, not even remembering reading,
\nshe\u2019s remembering the act of reading the paper,
\na series of daily gestures used to learn
\nabout the world outside our home.<\/p>\n

I remember as a teenager thinking
\nthe news was just increments of time,
\nheadlines telling us when and
\nwhere we are in history,
\nwhat we knew now was
\nmeaningless compared to truths
\nonly apparent long after we
\nand what we know are gone.<\/p>\n

As an adult, I realized
\nno truths matter as much
\nas the moment now,
\nbecause love can\u2019t be
\nsomewhere\u00a0 other than here.
\nI am your son, Timothy.<\/p>\n

The mists in her mind thin
\nand she grins, you cannot be my son,
\nTimothy is much younger,
\nwhich makes me laugh then fog billows
\nquickly accumulating density and
\nany further acknowledgement
\nis out of the question.<\/p>\n

So I show her my driver\u2019s license.
\nI renewed last year, the picture\u2019s new.
\nShe looks at the card, still unsure,
\nyou\u2019re my Timothy? She\u2019s shrugging,
\nstill not understanding. I take
\nback the license and hold her hand.
\nShe whispers, I\u2019m so happy to see you.<\/p>\n

Before I go she\u2019ll again ask who I am,
\nforgetting my visit even before
\nthe visit ends, but right now
\nshe knows who I am, she knows I\u2019m here.
\nLove not merely recalled, the silver
\ntether stretching without snapping.<\/p>\n

Copyright held by author\/2017<\/strong><\/p>\n