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Trashed Notebooks

Before mom's hands began shaking, she decided to copy the Bible. Like a scribe, she treated things holy. Washed her hands and her heart. Sharpened her pencil fresh. Sat with a clean spiral notebook with a yellow cover. The color of joy.  She started with Genesis. She stopped in Leviticus when she couldn't recognize herself in the curves and accidental jots and tittles (Matthew 5:18). When her hand refused to stick the graphite to the page and looked more like conducting Sousa's marching beat.  Last week, while taking out the garbage, I saw pressed ribbon that used to hold old letters. Frayed and flat with time. Faded against the flaked rust at the bottom of the dumpster. The swath of blue prenatal appointment cards, nineteen sixty six confetti.  A few black and white snapshots of some folks I knew, but never when they looked like that. School teacher versions of mom over the decades peeked between plastic, tin foil, and Coke zero cans because there's no place to recycle...
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I've learned softness, order, and the future of memory

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I've learned to make things softer. To warm the shower chair as the water heats To warm the room with the fan and light To drape the towel over the shower door To take the broken arm first, then over and around To tip the hairdryer upward instead of down To use the tail of the comb under the iron To spray and shield her eyes while she covers her ears To listen, nod, question, encouraging recollection and forgiveness. I've learned the order of things. That we'll need the toothpaste first and then the cup and cloth; and all that before the face cream and palette knife for the base before the brush and blush That we can't forget the spray for the heat and mousse  before the short strands curlish around the brush to dry Oh my, I've forgotten the treats to send the dog to lay beside the toilet with the tower and handles and I squeeze by the folding chair to dry the other side and tame the cow's licks curiously placed, to curl this way and that just so That the hair s...
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All you can for as long as you can...

 Mom fell while dusting the fans. Mind you...she's closer to 86 than 85, with Parkinsons.  Nena cleans her fans on the third Wednesday of the month. So she put mom on her calendar and comes over after she finishes her own fans. That's a beautiful gift to us all.  But mom had to give that up. The cleaning the fans in her socks thing. It meant she had to make a decision about what she could no longer do and let someone else fill that gap. And we are all glad to do so.  But we also have to give her the dignity of doing what she can as well. She might not be able to do all of her sports bra by herself, but she can do some of it. For a while, she couldn't open containers. Now she can manage most of them. We let her lead...doing what she can for as long as she can. That's also a beautiful gift to her and us all. 
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Chin Hairs

 Today, I pulled a chin hair. It was fine and grey. And loooong. She winced when I grabbed it and yanked. Didn't even ask or give a warning. "Oh, THANK you. Do that every time you see one of those." And she means it. I know it hurts...just like her arm and her shoulder and her tailbone and her neck. I think that big toe on the left hurts too. But she's always open to pulling the chin and nose hairs. At 85, she wants to look pretty. Today, she's wearing sassy red tights and a flouncy soft-cotton blouse. I pick her clothes each morning like dressing my Barbie. When I left for my own chores, she was sitting in the rocker, pedaling the floor bike, and trying to drink her water. Hopefully the day requires no more pain and includes hours of softness. 
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Wound Care

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  I love seeing their reflections in the doctor's computer.  Momma remembers when Uncle Montye broke his arm back in the day. They left that cast on for months whether he needed it or not. When they went back to the doctor to remove the cast, Montye was horrified. His arm had atrophied (half the size of the other) and translucent white compared to the healthy brown other, grown wiry black hairs, and the skin...scaled. He thought it was going to be that way forever. Half skinny lizzard. Half boy. They sent me the pictures when she was still at the doctor's office. She'd dutifully brought her prescriptions in the casserole dish we are using on the coffee table. I just have to smile. And she has on her house shoes.  The next morning, she asked, "Wanna see my scar?" She reminds me of my grandson, Dash. He was overly excited to see my toenail come off. Intrigued, he wanted to make sure I saved it so he could examine it and compare to the picture to see how it healed by...
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While It Happens

Note to the reader: This text is a CENTO form of poetry. The lines in italics are a poem that can be read by itself. Woven inside my narrative, it becomes something else, assisting in the theme and message.  I see her in a ring of sewing, light fingers on needle and hoop, elaborate scissors shaped like a tiny sotrk, the glass egg in her lap. Her temperate mourning wore black shoes ( Adcock, lines 1-5) The light does weird things in my memory. The room was dark contrast to the open window with the sheer curtains blowing in the wind. Like the fabric was some kind of daytime moonbeam that pierced the shadows of Granny's bedroom. I'd asked how she did her hair. She led me to her bedroom - I'd never been in that room before. She sat perpendicular to the window at her dressing table. I wasn't tall enough to see over her shoulder and into the mirror. Granny, my mom's grandmother, said I could take her hair down to see how it was done.   Released, her hair released a scent ...
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Anointing the Living

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I don't have an alabaster bottle to accompany my tears, But I have the tallow from the Brisket Jason smoked last Sunday. I've rendered the fat clean and whipped it with olive oil, vitamin E, and Lavender. Ever fanciful, she pretends we are Indians slathering ourselves with Bear Grease. I don't have swaddling clothes and we no longer wrap the bodies,  But I have white Wal Mart washcloths soaked in hot water until they steam. I've washed them in Borax and Downy; and have wrung them out before handing them to her.  Ever grateful, she sighs in comfort, cleans, and passes them back until they come back white. Even if the acts are menial, even if the consequences of living transfer to my skin,  I am anointing the living, Tahara while she wakes and still can tell me of her love.  She-ma yirsrael, adonai eloheinu, adonai echad. Hear, oh my soul, she is my momma, who loves.
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