By Debbie Baxter
My mother waved and talked to everyone, laughing
at the antics of five little girls all dressed up for church.
Then hundreds of people filled her room, mostly couples,
some of them with children. But all of them loved her
and wanted to be near. They stayed there all night, even
though she told them to go home, she needed sleep,
but they remained in her room. Soon, they were coming
and going, taking whatever they wanted, like a store.
She told them again to go, but they kept on all night,
until she yelled at the man who was lying in her bed.
That’s when I raced to her room and found her sitting
on her walker near her hospital bed. She’d climbed
out of it with the railings still up, scooted to the end,
stood and stumbled a few feet without help, then grabbed
her walker to move to the bed’s side. How she managed,
I’ll never know; I was just relieved she hadn’t fallen.
I told her I’d made the big man go, tended to her bloodied
wrist (injured on the side of the bed), and tucked her blanket
back around her. She needed rest, but mumbled incessantly
until dawn, exhaustion and sleep finally taking her over.
Next morning, she tells me most of the people were gone;
only a few still floated at the edges of her sight. By afternoon,
she was herself, lucid, intelligent. She couldn’t find any visitors
but seemed a little sad. She knew her blind eyes couldn’t see,
but she’d really enjoyed the attention. I tell her how much
I love her and don’t want to share her, then I give her a big hug.
It’s not the same, she says, and turns her face away.
Deborah (Debbie) Baxter is an award winning poet who lives in Chesapeake, Virginia. 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 dearly departed mother, who lived with Debbie for several years and recently passed at the age of 106, is the inspiration for many of her poems, including this one.