Murmurations

Near the end of our conversation,
she whispers, “I miss my home.”
“I know Ma, I would, too, if I were in your shoes.”
She then asks me to bring her the night lamp shaped like a tree,
a plastic red cardinal perched on one limb.
And her winter boots. And some Sanka.
“The kind in those small packets.
I left them in my pocket-book,” she says.
“Which one, Ma?” I ask.
She says, “The beige one.”
“That narrows it down by 50 %,” I say.
She says, “Beige with blue flowers.
”Oh, that one.” I say.
I don’t know which one she is talking about.
I search for it again and again.

Mom stopped living with us six weeks ago.
She went from the hospital to rehab to assisted living.
Friends ask me, “How is your mom doing? Is she all set?”
I tell them the place is terrific.
A building, older than my mom.
With staff who go out of their way to inquire
if she is too cold, too hot, bring her afternoon snacks
and bath her twice weekly, Wednesday and Sunday.
With other little old ladies who smile warmly
towards one another as they move from their bedrooms
towards the dining room, some with walkers and canes,
some without. Hefty portions of scrumptious food,
served family style.

But at the end of every conversation
I have with her, that pause
and then, “When can I come home?”

I fly in the opposite direction of telling her
what I really think. Her words flutter through me
and my feelings twist and turn, changing direction
in a moment’s notice. I want to say never, Mom.
Never is when you are coming home.
I want her to understand it is not my fault. Her fault.
It is not anyone’s fault.
But instead, I say this –
“You are in the best place. The best place for all of us.”
It’s true. I believe it, but that doesn’t stop me
from feeling altered by her question.
Every time she asks.