walking w/mom

Shall I tell you what it was like to hold her, crooning soon now, soon, to her while she wailed long coils of pain, how she grew whiter and whiter as a bout came on, her eyes sinking, her cheekbones rising, I would hold her and stroke her forehead, she said it helped, but how could it? Really, how could it? Maybe it would be better to tell you about the hundred walks in the halls. Each day she would try, despite pain, everything, to walk a little. She was afraid of withering away. She would take my arm like a teenager going to prom, the other hand always on the railing along the walls. The steps could not be counted. They were too slow. Agonizing increments of movement. I would set goals for her, tomorrow we'll get to the window in the next hall, you can see a beautiful old fir tree, taller than the building, from there. She would look doubtfully at me. And we would take another step. It took many tomorrows to get to that window, and by the time we did, the fir tree was anticlimactic. It was strange the things I saw out the windows of that hospital. I was the one up and about, running around taking care of things, able to go on and on with no help, no breaks, little rest, yet somehow thought I saw a redbud blooming, and daffodils. The first time she traveled down the halls to tests, she said from her wheel chair, oh no, I think that's a plum, and aren't those tulips down there? And she was right. I looked at the flowers and she was right. Which of us was the capable, focused mama here?