Winding Down: A Window Pane on Parting

©2018 Susan Noyes Anderson

We sit.
She, burgundy chair.
Me, blue leather sofa.
Like so many times
before, days of yore.
She used to watch me,
claim me, eyes love-lit.
I’d blush. You’re staring, Mom.
But I put up with it.

She watches still.
Soft hazel eyes,
once bright
stare past me now
devoid of mother-light.
Unclaimed, I try
to hold her eyes
with mine. Be seen,
be heard, be known,
wait for a sign.

Sure love you, Mom.
My voice, too soft,
falls lonely.
I love you.
Louder now and yet
unheard.
Oh, for a word!
Heart plummeting,
I yield
or nearly so.
Mom’s moving on
beyond me.
This I know.

We sit.
She, burgundy chair.
Me, blue leather sofa.
Like so many times
before, days of yore.
Between us, coffee table,
stool, my longing.
I lift a hand,
small wave from
distant shore.

Sunrise. As if on strings,
her elbow bends.
One weathered hand responds.
The distance ends.
I blow a kiss; she smiles.
Ghost smile, but true.
Small fingers pressed to lips,
she blows back two.
I twist my hands in
semblance of a heart.
She follows suit and
claims me, every part.

Time pauses;
eye to eye
our spirits touch.
So many years remembered,
sweetly shared.
I love you, Mom.
Once more, her
light shines through.
Sun to my soul,
she speaks.
I love you, too.

∞§∞

The onset of dementia is an inexplicable sorrow for loved ones, and my family is no different. I can imagine few things more heartbreaking than watching my lovely, intelligent mother decline in capacity day by day. How I miss her insights, her humor, her comfort, even her criticism (though she rarely aimed any in my direction). I miss her sudoku, her crossword puzzles, her Kindle, her love for reality TV talent shows. I miss her delight in See’s candy, small dogs, and Swedish pancakes. I miss her cooking, her curiosity, her crazed kitchen cleaning.

Yes, I miss her, but I am also grateful for the pieces of her that are left to me. This poem shares a moment that I will treasure always. Maybe it will resonate with you.

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