Deirdre Neilen, PhD: Kathleen Goldblatt is a poet who describes visiting her mother in assisted living. Here is "How I Take Care of My Mother."
I walk down the long hall to my mother's room
past dining tables, past cloned rooms,
to where she sits in her worn-blue lift chair,
bend to kiss the tissue-paper skin of her forehead.
We begin the game --
How are you? I'm fine. We're experts.
She wants everything tidy.
I straighten what I can, put away
pink flannel pajamas, clean the cup at her sink.
Drop into the empty wheelchair.
I ask about the chicken she had for lunch,
ask if I can turn on the television. Noise
fills holes. I want her to say no, act annoyed.
I want her to curse. An aide comes in and tells me
how nice my mother is. Niceness can be
a burden so heavy even Atlas wouldn't carry it,
I'm fine can be a conspiracy of lies.
She told me once how she climbed a tree
when she was young, how she refused to come down
for hours. Sometimes people hide so long
they forget they want to be found.
Pictures line her dresser, the window sill, a small table --
a family of skilled smilers. Tiredness creeps in,
I fix us both a cup of tea. I'm swimming across a lake
not sure there is another shore. I keep swimming
because she is old, because she won't come
down from a tree. I want to know if she is afraid
of death. I promise to come back tomorrow,
prop the door, say, I miss you. The only truth I tell.