(no subject)

[dancingwriter]

This is my first Mother's Day without my mom, and it's been a hard one. Along with the sadness, though, there have been a great many happy memories--and some not entirely happy, but nonetheless comforting. Among these are the memories of Mom taking care of me during all my childhood illnesses and after my surgeries. This selection from my verse novel Arise, Fair Sun is based largely on my memory of waking up to my mother's care after my second open-heart surgery:

The first thing I see
when I wake up again
is my mother's green dress

The first thing I feel
is thirsty
like I've been in a desert where noon lasted a week
and my throat is sore
like I swallowed a sandstorm

Mom looks so far away
her edges blur
she could be a mirage
the green of her dress
could mean an oasis, a promise of water
if only I could get to her

But I am drifting away

________________________

The next time I open my eyes,
Mom is beside me,
her edges solid,
her green cotton sleeve brushing my cheek
as her hand strokes my hair,
her touch light as if
I am some stray, hurt bird she's found
and she is afraid of frightening me.
I try to say, "Mom"--
it comes out a crowlike croak:
"Maaaaa,"
with no strength left for the m on the end.
And Mom whispers,
"Lizzie,"
and that's all she manages to say
for a long time.

_________________________

Mom holds a paper cup,
spoons an ice chip out of it,
holds the ice to my lips,
and oh, that ice,
that little cold sliver
of crystallized water--
it's the best thing I've ever put in my mouth,
and as it melts it slides down my throat
and makes the desert inside me
sigh away into a calm clear pool.
Mom feeds me another ice chip,
and another,
and I am greedy for more,
wanting the whole cupful
now, right now,
but Mom will not be hurried;
she sticks to some ice-chip schedule
that only she knows.
A little at a time,
a little at a time.
And finally
I am not thirsty.
Now I can just enjoy the fact
that I am breathing again.