I am Learning
Bella, Emma, Abby, Charlie, Cosette, Me and Mama - our last Mother’s Day together
I watch crisscross applesauce on the green carpet. I am learning but I am not sure what.
My back rests against the foot of my parents bed while Mother Mary, Jesus and Pope John Paul have balcony seats on the wall. Mom is methodical: extract hot roller, wrap hair, spray. Until her entire head is in full bloom with future curls. The bathroom is the one place she doesn’t smoke or drink her instant coffee.
The two large cabinets to her left hold the necessary toiletries: hairspray, roll on Suave deodorant, brushes that she washes regularly. The hot rollers, cooling, rest on the counter unplugged now, waiting to be placed in their rightful spot on the second shelf down. The bathroom window is open, allowing the cool breeze to enter the room and wash over me.
I am learning, but I’m just not sure what.
Mom is in the hospice bed now. Her sewing room turned into a dying room. No more hot rollers. She is tucked in with a pink blanket with tied edges that my BF from high school kids made for a woman they never met. It’s funny how sickness connects you - I regularly saw her mom, Mrs. B, when she was in a care home. She didn’t remember everyone, but she always knew me. Was it the See’s buttercream chocolates or was there an imprint from HS shenanigans? When I dished the tea openly, my friend shot me death stares. She wasn’t my mom. But Mrs. B never judged. Always listening. Always loving.
I am learning, I thought. I am just not sure what.
Now I am back in my childhood home standing in front of the hall closet. Bottles of shampoo, shaving cream, and Irish Spring soap lined up on the shelves neatly like soldiers. All of these items are purchased on sale - but do you save money if you buy enough to last you until the Apocalypse? Avon nail polish organized in a shoe box, sample miniature lipsticks in a recipe box, new towels with the tags still on.
I am learning, I am just not sure what.
Let me help you into the shower, mom. Careful now. Little by little, careful so careful. Perched on the bench, washing all the parts gently. Oh, let’s get the back of your neck and ears, your face, temple, cheeks, neck, shoulders, arms, elbows, clavicle, breasts, tummy, thighs, knees, calves, feet, soles, toes. A towel draped over each part so you don’t become chilly. Puff puff with Jean Nate body powder. Puff puff all the parts that may be a little damp.
I am learning, and starting to understand what.
Toilet lid down, here sits Abby, then Bella, and then Abby again, for three separate ACL surgeries. Ah, I remember this dance. Warm washcloth, except this time, I bathe my babies, my big babies. Careful, so gently near the knee. Propping the leg tenderly so as not to bend it. Avoid discomfort. Gentle so gentle. Clean clothes, fresh panties, back to the recliner to rest.
I am learning, and now I understand why.
Inspired by the poem Mother’s Day by Dorianne Laux
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