(mid-to-late
'80s Collection)
Bedrail
in a dim room room, one wall-lamp reveals an array
of
sundry things from home: . . . a tin of wheat crackers ...
a
photo of couple smiling in commercial matting … a brush
for
thinning hair . . . two turquoise-color barrettes
a
note from Ruth - requesting some individual attention paid
to
those functional dresses bought over the past few
of
mom's 102 years … a box of kleenex …
.
. . all scattered randomly on a nightstand.
Her
feet set upon a cushy stool she leans into soft armchair
talking
vaguely to the homespun Wichita self
who
stopped listening
ages
ago.
Small
frame can't seem to keep breakfast down she gags like a lady
holding
back from the disgrace of frothing sputum trickling
from
her trembling chin
her
dentures clacking a little.
The
discharge, not remembered or not noticed is not held accountable
as
she frets over the mystery of her soiled knit afghan,
the
one given her by someone not recalled.
But
if this environment is strange, where brown-skinned ghosts
in
pastel blouses pass in and out with mops
and
spray bottles
and
youngsters swiftly change the bed-linen misplacing memoirs
amid
the daily dressings and undressings -
so
was her own little house strange to her after inhabiting that
for
the better part of a century.
Limbs
and bowels move slowly so with time uneasily comes release
of
moment into moment.
The
track of awareness is fixed like a lonely train station
on
some missing link to the present. Her dear little eyes
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