By Debbie Baxter
I watch my mom for signs she’s going to be leaving me soon, even as she’s still here. She looks more fragile. A little more lost. Is she? Is she between two worlds now? Who is it she reaches for when she’s sleeping? Is it her mother or maybe my dad? She told me he was sitting on the love seat, and when he didn’t speak to her, she thought he was dead, and then she said she knew it was a dream, a bad dream.
There are people in her room these days, but she says she knows they’re not real. She’s stopped talking about them like she once did, but she thinks they’re sitting on her sofa, sleeping in her bed, or having picnics in the floor with their children, waiting for her to join them. They don’t speak, but they smile, gather around her, and sometimes, when she thinks I’m not looking, she smiles and waves at them.
Other times, she worries the blankets between her fingers, touching, always
touching the fabric, moving her hands along the edges, reading the soft folds
as if it gives her messages only she can see. When she wakes from her frequent naps, she’s confused and slurs her words. I bring her water, say my name real loud. She turns blind eyes my direction. “Who are you again?” she asks, smiling.
“Just me, Mom, no one important,” and we laugh. But it’s not really funny.
Deborah (Debbie) Baxter is an award winning poet who lives in Chesapeake, Virginia, with her husband and 105-year-old mother. A graduate of Old Dominion University, Debbie continues her creative writing education at The Muse Writers Center in Norfolk. Her poetry reflects her Southern roots and ties to family. Her amazing mother is the inspiration for many of her poems.