Between the two of us

At the end of the hall, rounding the corner of Room 417, I see her. In bed, immobile. Her head turns my way, eyes take a moment to focus, then a grin tears across her face like the sun splitting the clouds.

Hi Mom!

Her smile widens.

I sit beside her, hold her hand, kiss her, kiss her, kiss her.

She gently but purposefully pushes me away, eyes the fruit containers I've placed on the buffet.

What Mom? I tease her, Would you like some berries?

She brightens, widens her eyes a bit, shakes her head up and down.

We are learning how to communicate, she and I.

She hungrily grabs handful after handful from the plate. I hold the plate, waiting for her hand to reach for more, move the plate each time like a target for her reach, so that she always succeeds.

She looks at me, focuses on me, says Thank you. Out loud, her voice thanks me. Her words! Her voice! I smile at her, lean down and kiss her. Anything Mom, anything you need. I love you.

After the feast, I rest my feet on her bed, tell her about the day, the world, my dreams. She smiles at me like she holds a secret, moves her hand along the top of my foot, my ankle. At this moment, she is giving, rubbing, loving. More than feeling the heart-joy of her hand on my foot, I am thrilled to observe her, watch her hands move along my skin. Watch her alive and loving, listening.

Mom? I love you.