Her hands foreshadow
her death
skeletal fingers
stiff
cold
She lifts her left arm in jerks
until her fingers brush her ear
reaching higher
scratches her head
A prelude
to her
story
After my father died
she accumulated his gestures
one at a time
Keeping him alive
in her own frail body
And just as he always did
she slowly
lowers her hand
as she
begins
to
speak.
Her voice
so low
It was the railroad that did us in
Who, Mom
Did who in
All of us
you and me
Mother
everybody
He was gone too much
You know the other women
You mean Grandpa
Familiar veil of vacancy
drops over her eyes
And this story is lost
like all the others
Barriers
painstakingly
erected
over eight decades
Began
to
fall
after
he
died
Slowly
at first
then crumbling
faster and faster
Until even her body
was stripped
bare
helpless
Her still beautiful face maintains youth
with 100 tons of cold cream
applied faithfully every night
and her long sleeved
silk blouses
tucked into tiny waisted polyester pants
belied the decay
until the day
she filled
her diaper
and waited patiently
indifferently
while I cleaned and re-dressed her
oblivious
to the ancient rolls of excess skin
fallen
over a frame that never topped
100 pounds
even when she was pregnant.
How do I reconcile
this sad
confused woman
who can’t remember
how to brush her teeth
with the mother
I have known
The mother obsessed
with appearances
Doling out
not love
but approval
in direct proportion
to the success achieved
A teaspoon for an A
A cup for the lead role in the school play
Punishment administered less judiciously
always withdrawal
turning her back until
the unthinkable offense and I
no longer
existed.
Now I am the center
even more
I am her world
her past
her caretaker
For fifty years
we did not touch
Now she is hungry
for my hand
As I am hungry
for her stories
Together
we act
unfinished plays
I am her mother
her sister
sometimes myself
Inevitably
I miss
my cue
recite
the wrong
line
Her blank look of despair
ends the drama
and so we begin again
The next time
and the next
the next
the next
Conspirators
set upon finding the truth
This is the only way
it could have happened
this search
for what
was real
Her strength had to ebb
so that the mask
she held steadfastly
to her
face
would fall
and I
protective
of her
vulnerability
can discard my old list
of things she did
and did not do
when she wore
the mask.
Bonita, Part 2
Fragments of truth
we have uncovered so far
culled
from our scenes acted out
confirmed
by photograph albums
Her grandmother was Jewish
shunned
by both sides of the family
when she married
Her father
working on the railroad
dallied
with other women
Her mother
shamed by his behavior
held her children
to the strictest code of conduct
Her sister
confided
a love affair with a married man
She never saw
nor wrote
nor spoke
to her again
My father
a free spirit
agreed to uphold her standards
slipping only occasionally
She forgave him
Her first born
run down
on his way to school
by a driver
still drunk
from the night before
Her sorrow so deep
it could not be shared
only endured
Chronically fearful
she could not abide
deviation
from the rules
she set out for her family
Shame was to be avoided at all cost
These are truths still hidden
Why
does she not have
one picture
of her wedding
Why
did she spend a year
not working
with her aunt in San Francisco
was her aunt gay
did she know
Was she a different mother
to Stephen
than to Denny
Did she love them both
We are running out of time
She
falls
more often now
tires more easily
This is hard work
getting at the truth
and
mostly
she
would
rather
sleep
I wait until I hear her soft snores
I leave her alone
The worst day so far
She greets me with
Where are all my things
What have they done with them
I cannot indulge this fantasy
Look around
Mom
all your things are here
No
she shouts
these are all new things
all new people here
they are all in cahoots
A fellow resident peeks in the doorway
Are you all right Bonita
I seize this bit of reality.
See, Mom it’s Evelyn
still here
They’re conning her too
Listen
She grabs
both my arms
pulls herself up
You think I’m crazy don’t you
No
Mom
just a little confused
She presses her face
against my shoulder
Promise me
if you call and
I sound
the least bit peculiar
come as fast as you can
promise
And so we conspire
once again
this time
against her demons
A funny thing happened today
I ate dinner with her
in the dining room
as I had many times
this time
she tells me
how much she likes the restaurant
This place is always full
she says
Even her name is different
Born Edna Bonita
she insisted upon Bonnie
even as a little girl.
Edna
was ugly
Bonita
was Spanish
Bonnie
was pretty and light
But her health insurance
and social security cards
read E. Bonita
everyone in this place
trained
to call residents by name
addresses her as Bonita
She doesn’t seem to care
one way
or the other
Separate names
separate her lives
We moved Bonnie’s things
the green rolltop desk
the clock
the loveseat
the dresser
framed photos
the bookcase
the knicknack shelf
the gold chair
these things
we moved into Bonita’s room
Only the single bed is new
a better size
besides
urine stained
the old mattress
Which one is real
Bonita emerged
as Bonnie
started
to die
Bonnie was selfish
neglectful
Bonita is generous
reveling in gifts
to her children
and grandchildren
Bonnie maintained the fiction
that nothing could go wrong
in her family
nothing bad
could ever happen
to any of us
Bonita sees danger
everywhere she looks
Bonnie would not see me
the year I was treated
for breast cancer
Bonita asks about my health
tells me to take care of myself
Meanness
was not born
in Bonnie
only fear
and the instinct
to survive
Bonita knows
she will not survive
and welcomes
the prospect
Bonnie is already gone
It is time
for Candy to go
Those two could never forgive
Bonita and Candace
struggle on together
in their search for truths
Between us
there is nothing to forgive.
|
