April 17

Next week is my mother’s 86^th birthday.  Today she is no better than yesterday or the day before.  I hoped that a day’s worth of amoxicillin would clear up the extra confusion that appeared with her urinary tract infection.

            At 3:45 p.m. I knock on her door and go in.  Lying down on her side, she acknowledges my greeting.  I stand at the end of her bed and attempt conversation.  From this perspective, I see the sharp ridge of her hip and the skeletal frame of her body.  She cannot get comfortable and restlessly shifts her legs.  She coughs, pushes back her hair from her eyes, adjusts her pillow. 

            She still calls me by name.  But she wonders where I live and is not sure about where she is, either.  She tells me she is very, very tired.  Eventually, I come around to the head of the bed and pat her shoulder.  She turns to give me a hug.  I encourage her to get some rest, and I leave.

            Heart heavy, I walk the shoreline path at City Beach, searching for words . . .

If I were an artist

I could not splash my canvas yellow with daffodils,

nor could I create spring shades of green.

Today my brush would stroke gray clouds and gray waves,

the seascape of grief.