by Gabriella Samms

Created on: April 25, 2008

Every Saturday I make the trip to mom's
Work keeps me from visiting more often
Yet each day I make three calls
Morning, noon and night
To show I'm there, when physically I'm unable

The sheets on her hospice bed need changing
From cookies dropped or pudding smeared
The very things that are needed to take away
The taste of sour pills

I organize her Tivo shows, wipe the dust

That sticks on her tv screen
Gather old newspapers probably never read
Yet left in piles around her
On the floor

Her weekly bubble baths and blow dried hair
Makes her feel human and makes me feel needed
Her nails painted and buffed
Just in case she looks down
And needs to see them pretty

I re-arrange the room she's lived in
For nine months
So each week she has variety
In some way to think life is still
a future possibility

We share small talk for hours
Or I often sit and watch her sleep
When morphine takes her to a place
Where no pain exists
Yet mine lingers in quiet desperation

At days end I leave, always with a kiss
A hug, and a promise that I'll be back
She cries, my mom, for taking me away
From a day she claims I could have done better things
Bigger things, things for me instead of for her

I drive home crying from her appreciation
My best friend thanking me for such little things
She has no idea I live for
the bigger ones I cannot give
Like the promise of life
Or health
Or time

The little things in life seem to be
All that she needs
While I search for bigger things
Like more Saturdays
More talks
More time with mom

So much alike we are
Except for our wants
Our needs completely different
But satisfied by just being together

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