A Critique of My Aging Mother
Her voice is a little throaty sometimes, more each year.
A word that hangs like an engine sputtering, stalling as her mind races to catch up.
Peddling quick, but not quick enough that I don't see its orbit.
Whir. Whir.
Sometimes it catches.
Like that time I caught my foot in the spokes of my bike.
Scraping the skin right off, lurching to a stop.
But I was already bleeding. Confused, dizzy.
Stones in my hair, asphalt in my palms.
I think of her and it's all tender and sweet.
She's sutured herself to my heart.
As much part of the pattern as its four chambers.
But when I respond it's unkind. Impatient, intentionally.
Feigning confusion, but I know what she means.
The quiet cruelty of a daughter.
She knows before I respond. Her eyes flicker with that knowing.
Whir.
On defense. Before the words escape her lips.
And I notice the wrinkles around them, are a little deeper than last year.
Posted Oct 13, 2017, 6:14 PM UTC