My mother dwindles and dwindlesand lives and lives.Her strong heart drives heras heedless as an enginethrough one night after another.Everyone says This can't go on,but it does.It's like watching somebody drown.
If she were a boat, you'd saythe moon shines through her ribsand no one's steering,yet she can't be said to be drifting;somebody's in there.Her blind eyes light her way.
Outside, in her derelict garden,the weeds grow almost audibly:nightshade, goldenrod, thistle.Each time I hack them downanother wave spills forward,up towards her window.They batter the brick wall slowly,
muffle border and walkway,slurring her edges.Her old order of wordscollapses in on itself.Today, after weeks of silence,she made a sentence:I don't think so.
I hold her hand, I whisper,Hello, hello.If I said Goodbye instead,if I said, Let go,what would she do?
But I can't say it.I promised to see this through,whatever that may mean.What can I possibly tell her?I'm here.I'm here.
