Two steps lead to the front door. The first rises about four inches, and the second about six. Between these, the brick landing is about five feet wide. After the second step and before the front door, there is about eight feet of porch. I take these steps from door to driveway without thinking, without considering the movement or calculating any sort of risk. She eyes them with caution and grips my arm tight. I have you. You're okay. Her grip does not loosen. Stopped at the first step, she looks to the front door as if it were on the horizon. She looks back at the first step, raises her left foot but cannot bring it forward. She lets out a short, frustrated sigh, steps forward a bit and tries again. Wobbly and afraid, she succeeds. Again she looks at the front door, her goal. And she faces the next step, breathing hard and hanging on. She looks at me with eyes that implore me not to let go. Again I tell her she's okay. You can do it.
Inside the house, she climbs into bed, exhausted from the afternoon of doctor appointments and negotiating unsure paths on unsure feet. She looks at me and whispers one word: Die.
She does not want to be a burden, cannot find any peace between needing and accepting help, or more to the point, accepting that she needs help. She wants to give in and let us care for her, but can't let go the frustration that she is unable to do these things, to walk unguided, to eat a meal without assistance, to take a drink and hold her own glass. She does not want to unravel.
The house is quiet, the lights low. She rests. I walk to the kitchen and turn back to the livingroom where I see previous times of celebration. Christmas parties, Thanksgiving gatherings, my brother's wedding reception. I can hear voices no longer here, see faces long gone. I see my father in his red sports coat, opening a bottle of champagne and raising his eyebrows at me. I see Christmas morning and smell the tree, I think I see ribbons on the floor and discarded wrapping paper. I see her in the entry way, perfectly dressed, perfect hostess. She's holding the conversation, her manicured nails drifting in a red arc as she moves her hand in the air, her red lips curving in a smile around her words. I see friends in the chairs, on the couch, there's warm life filling the rooms. I see all that was once here, all at once. And I stand still and remember.
I shake my head, turn around, place the dishes in the sink.
When I turn back again, the voices have hushed, the memories faded back into the walls. The house is quiet now, the lights low. She rests.
3 comments:
one day it may be you playing perfecyt hostess and soemone you love looking around and thinking about what you built for them.
Is your mother?
Si, mi madre.
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