My Turn

Could I give you a bath? Oh, no, honey. It is too much work. But I know she gave me many baths, and so I insist. She thanks me about sixteen times, apologizing. For her helplessness, for her inability to do it for herself for her cancer. Mom, let me fix you a little supper. She insists she does not want any. It is too much work; I have my own children to care for. She does not want to be a burden. She tries to send me on my way, home to my four little ones. It does not work. I stay, long enough to see she is too weak to make a sandwich. She was my mother for sixty-six years, now it is my turn to be hers. I take her to my house instead of her house when we leave the hospital. She insists it is too much trouble. She would be in the way. Far from it. Four little ones keep her comfortable, and warm. Listening to her stories when she has the energy to tell them. When she does not, they sit on her bed and kiss her hands. Learning that grandma is dying and it is our turn to do whatever we can to nurture her the way she once nurtured their Mommy.