Holding On for Dear Life

Brass trio of geese, pewter platters,
plastic tabletop tree bearing artificial fruit.
Mom’s things are stored so she can see them again
if she wants, her room at assisted living too small
for objects more decorative than essential,
except for a few teddy bears, random photos,
including the black-and-white of Grandma
mounted on her horse.

She doesn’t remember her ranch-style house,
but I still see her scrubbing shag carpeting
on her hands and knees, vacuuming curtains
and dark recesses of closets. After Dad died,
possessions replaced human voices.
Yet now she dangles her feet on the edge
of the twin bed and hangs on to my every word
even though I’m a stranger with a name
she doesn’t recognize, a name erased
like letters on a chalkboard.

How does one live without memories?
Her wedding day, Dad in his Navy uniform.
Holding one baby, then the second and third.
Religiously flipping pancakes on Sundays.
When we all became too much and time
moved slow as honey. Now when I ask
what she ate for breakfast, she frowns,
the memory not even a dull shadow.

How will I live without a mother?
Our weekly talks from two thousand
miles away. Her political views, stories
of friends sick or dead. My reports
of grown children in college or working.
How can I carry all of our memories?
Tell me, how does one go on?

Published in
Saving Ourselves: An Anthology Advocating for Women & Girls