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09/10/11 - (2)
Intangible
Lately, it seems I've only been going to see my mother Once every other weekend or so, Depending on the density of my social commitments, The neglected, ever-pressing chores I need to complete, Not to mention the demands of my writing schedule.
I realize she has needs her caretakers can't meet, Which I, her oldest, should address more often, To mediate her overwhelming loneliness, Assuage her inexorably encroaching dementia, By holding her uncontrollably tremoring hands,
Helping her put her coffee cup back in its saucer, Whispering reassurances of my abiding love, Kissing her wizened cheeks, desiccated lips, Combing my fingers through her brittle hair — She who sits, nibbles, sleeps . . . waits.
Across the table from her, staring at her frailty, I think I know why I've been reluctant to visit her: She no longer seems like my mother, Just a presence as intangible as air, light, time, And I feel myself becoming a son of nothingness.
09/10/11 - (2)
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