PoetTree
09-22-2011, 12:42 PM
She's given up on kerchiefs. I tell her she looks fine, better than fine: she could be a Kenyan queen, with her black dome shining bright as any crown. I bring in glossy pages torn from the National Geographics at the downtown library: strong women with glistening bald heads, wearing coils of gold on giraffe-long necks. "See, Mama," I say, piercing one to the wall with a thumbtack, "You look just like her." It's hard, then, to turn and see Mama, to take her in. Her smile is garish, too many teeth below that bony beak-nose, and her black-bead eyes are glassy hot. "She's your Mama," I remind myself, and dig down deep to swallow what's creeping up my throat.
I'm here to give a sponge bath. They have an orderly to do it, a big man named Antoine, who can flip those old people over easy as rag dolls. But Mama-- who has her **** carried out in a pan-- is scandalized by the thought of a man bathing her. "Can you imagine," she whispers, "that man's hands all over your body?" She's clearly appalled, but I do find myself imagining Antoine's hands all over me, palming that fat yellow sponge and soaping me down, flipping me onto my stomach…. Damn. Here's Mama in her nubbled cotton nightie and I'm thinking about loving on Antoine. Something is sick in my head.
I turn down the sheets and lay a towel on her pillow. Mama's gown is washed thin and holds someone else's stains. It's clean, though, reeking of bleach that mingles with the sweet-rot smell of her skin. I untie the bow and her flesh scalds my fingers. She's running a fever. Again? Still? Her body is all bones, a skeleton dressed up in skin.
I begin bathing her, the way you'd bathe a baby. Not that I've ever washed a baby. But when Mama first asked me to do this, after she got too sick to stand in the shower, I looked it up on the library computer. Typed "How to give a sponge bath" in the search box. Got a lot of kinky sites, but nothing serious. Eventually I found a parenting site that said how to wash a newborn. Not too far off, I guess. You save the head for last, in case you ever need to know. It keeps them from getting chilled.
She moans when the sponge touches her skin. Whether it's because it hurts or feels good, I don't know. I'm not going to ask, because it won't matter, she needs cleaning either way. I rub down her arms first, it's the easiest part. Her arms still look like arms, her elbows are elbows, her hands are knobby but still human hands. I keep up the chatter, tell her about my community college classes, about the notes my professor scrawled on my last creative writing assignment. "He used the word 'sapient.' I looked it up, and it sounds bad but it isn't. He liked it, Mama."
I'm washing her shoulders and her breast is next. Mama has her eyes closed, and I feel stupid-jealous that I have to look when she doesn't. I take a deep breath and dab at her remaining breast. It's so thin, it feels like it might tear if I rub too hard. The thought creeps in that I nursed at this breast, once. I know this but can't really believe it's fact. The thought of a baby attached to this withered appendage is disgusting. "She's your Mama." There's just a shiny pink scar where her other breast used to be. She's as flat as boy; flatter, because even a boy's got a nipple. I suddenly feel excessive, with my ridiculous C-boobs. I feel overdressed, somehow, and underdressed at the same time.
Mama's eyes are still closed, so she won't see me turn my head as I give a customary swipe down below. I know from what I read online that you should spread the folds of a baby girl, wipe good from front to back, to prevent infections. But. That's asking a lot. Too much. I'm sorry, Mama, but it's too much.
Now I help her turn, trying to be gentle, but she whimpers anyhow. I'm telling her about my roommates, they drive me crazy with their acrylic nails and their weaves and their press-on lashes, and two of them have implants, I swear they could hardly be called human now, what with their fake this and fake that…
You would think the back would be easy. A broad clean sweep and you're done: no crevices, no missing parts, nothing to make you think about your dying Mama and sex in the very same breath. But Mama is hunched, her shoulder blades protruding, black and featherless. Featherless, of course. But I can't shake the thought that they ought to be wings, a sprouting pair of white downy wings. I cannot move; the sponge drip, drip, drips onto the bedsheet.
Mama turns her head to look at me, and her shoulder blades flutter, useless. God help me. It's too much. I'm sorry Mama, but it's too much. I lose it, I stand and there and sob over my mother's naked body. Mama manages to roll, she faces me and opens her arms wide. I crawl into bed with her and press my face against her one shriveled breast. She strokes my hair and lets me cry, doesn't tell me to shush. She whispers, "I am still your Mama," and my heart is full and breaking.
How will she fly without wings?
I'm here to give a sponge bath. They have an orderly to do it, a big man named Antoine, who can flip those old people over easy as rag dolls. But Mama-- who has her **** carried out in a pan-- is scandalized by the thought of a man bathing her. "Can you imagine," she whispers, "that man's hands all over your body?" She's clearly appalled, but I do find myself imagining Antoine's hands all over me, palming that fat yellow sponge and soaping me down, flipping me onto my stomach…. Damn. Here's Mama in her nubbled cotton nightie and I'm thinking about loving on Antoine. Something is sick in my head.
I turn down the sheets and lay a towel on her pillow. Mama's gown is washed thin and holds someone else's stains. It's clean, though, reeking of bleach that mingles with the sweet-rot smell of her skin. I untie the bow and her flesh scalds my fingers. She's running a fever. Again? Still? Her body is all bones, a skeleton dressed up in skin.
I begin bathing her, the way you'd bathe a baby. Not that I've ever washed a baby. But when Mama first asked me to do this, after she got too sick to stand in the shower, I looked it up on the library computer. Typed "How to give a sponge bath" in the search box. Got a lot of kinky sites, but nothing serious. Eventually I found a parenting site that said how to wash a newborn. Not too far off, I guess. You save the head for last, in case you ever need to know. It keeps them from getting chilled.
She moans when the sponge touches her skin. Whether it's because it hurts or feels good, I don't know. I'm not going to ask, because it won't matter, she needs cleaning either way. I rub down her arms first, it's the easiest part. Her arms still look like arms, her elbows are elbows, her hands are knobby but still human hands. I keep up the chatter, tell her about my community college classes, about the notes my professor scrawled on my last creative writing assignment. "He used the word 'sapient.' I looked it up, and it sounds bad but it isn't. He liked it, Mama."
I'm washing her shoulders and her breast is next. Mama has her eyes closed, and I feel stupid-jealous that I have to look when she doesn't. I take a deep breath and dab at her remaining breast. It's so thin, it feels like it might tear if I rub too hard. The thought creeps in that I nursed at this breast, once. I know this but can't really believe it's fact. The thought of a baby attached to this withered appendage is disgusting. "She's your Mama." There's just a shiny pink scar where her other breast used to be. She's as flat as boy; flatter, because even a boy's got a nipple. I suddenly feel excessive, with my ridiculous C-boobs. I feel overdressed, somehow, and underdressed at the same time.
Mama's eyes are still closed, so she won't see me turn my head as I give a customary swipe down below. I know from what I read online that you should spread the folds of a baby girl, wipe good from front to back, to prevent infections. But. That's asking a lot. Too much. I'm sorry, Mama, but it's too much.
Now I help her turn, trying to be gentle, but she whimpers anyhow. I'm telling her about my roommates, they drive me crazy with their acrylic nails and their weaves and their press-on lashes, and two of them have implants, I swear they could hardly be called human now, what with their fake this and fake that…
You would think the back would be easy. A broad clean sweep and you're done: no crevices, no missing parts, nothing to make you think about your dying Mama and sex in the very same breath. But Mama is hunched, her shoulder blades protruding, black and featherless. Featherless, of course. But I can't shake the thought that they ought to be wings, a sprouting pair of white downy wings. I cannot move; the sponge drip, drip, drips onto the bedsheet.
Mama turns her head to look at me, and her shoulder blades flutter, useless. God help me. It's too much. I'm sorry Mama, but it's too much. I lose it, I stand and there and sob over my mother's naked body. Mama manages to roll, she faces me and opens her arms wide. I crawl into bed with her and press my face against her one shriveled breast. She strokes my hair and lets me cry, doesn't tell me to shush. She whispers, "I am still your Mama," and my heart is full and breaking.
How will she fly without wings?