Motherhood, Sotto Voce

I held the small boney hand
of my aging mother
and we both watched the grass
beneath our feet
as we crossed the lawn.
Each step’s rhythm was matched
by a slight tightening
of her grip on me,
her footing more uncertain
than her mind;
than her whole being.

She had become oddly bent,
this woman, and it was impossible
on that brief walk
to imagine her bearing
a child, laboring
to bring it forth into the light.

She has taken to staring blankly
at some distant point
with a look of wonder
and doubt,
as if unable to picture a future
for herself.

I catch her at this
and cannot imagine
what thoughts are firing
her inner strength,
except that she tells me
it’s God that gives her stamina.

It is a source of pain to hear this,
since we parted ways on that subject.
It is an echo of her deep
disappointment that I did not
match her Christian fervor.

But it occurs to me I might
be wrong, might instead be reciting
early planted guilt
still living in me.

She has become the sole life support
of the man who was father
to me
and lover to her,
his bones now wrapped in a loose
pile of transparent skin.

He grunts for her when
he hungers
and grunts for her
to empty his bowels.
He says little else to her now,
though he did ask me
once to speak to her on his behalf
to allow a touch,
“You know,” he muttered, “a love touch.”
“He’s always grabbing at me,”
was how she put it,
and the subject was dropped.

She ministers to him
in less than selfless efficiency,
ministers to this man
who always seemed less,
to her,
even in his youthful vigor,
less than the perfect mate
she had imagined,
less to be proud of.
And now, in his broken,
unsteady existence,
less than she would
expose to a stranger’s eyes.

She bends in disappointment
as we cross the grass
and I pretend to show her
my new home,
my new life,
but I sense only unfinished business;
a cast of characters
that passes through
her mind.
I recognize the boney hand
as the same hand which
gripped me in my youth
and taught me the pain of faith
and not its gentle,
loving touch
And I knew that subtle voice,
almost outside my hearing,
saying goodbye
to hope,
to love,
to motherhood.