your daughter is in the cup
Thank God Mom’s still alive. Who else could I turn to? I don’t care if she‘s senile and falling fast into the abyss of Alzheimer’s. I’ve seen those folks in her nursing home, rolled up in the fetal position, crying for their mother. I will be my mother’s mother.
I’ve been keeping a journal since I was able to write. Ma never had time to talk. She was always busy. Now she has all the time in the world. I write while sitting with Ma now.
“Who’s your daughter, Ma?” We were at Starbucks. I wanted to keep track of her forgetting. She was dipping her fingers into the cold cappuccino I wasn’t able to get her to drink. She pointed to the cup, “Here!” she announced, proudly. “What? Your daughter is in the cup?” She looked at me blankly. I wrote in my journal, Ma thought I was in her Starbuck’s cup today.
She’s always quiet for a while. But then she wanders off. “Let’s go home, Ma,” I’ll say, putting my arms around her. It’s as simple as that.
Bobbi Lurie is the author of four poetry collections: The Book I Never Read, Letter from the Lawn, Grief Suite and the morphine poems. She can be found on Twitter here: @BobbiLurie
Banner: “Untitled” a photo image (c) by Robynne Limoges. Tweets: @LimogesRobynne