Priscilla and I motor across Colorado into Nebraska.
Road is magic carpet, lifting tires above ruts and bumps.
My mother now resides in a nursing home.
Feet are tentative, eyes prepare for the illusion
Of what her life is now.
Door opens, her fine white hair levitates
Her mouth is open and the sleep is noisy.
An attendant elevates her head.
You have company Mary.
Blue grey eyes frisk our faces for recognition.
My face attracts but she doesn’t know why.
As Priscilla speaks, a memory warms mom’s gaze.
We hold her hands, delicate fingers respond.
Tiny feet are massaged, her face softens.
Priscilla says, Mary Frances O’Brien,
You are a beautiful Irish lady, she smiles.
Family photos facilitate various reactions.
At times her face blanks,
Then a picture of her mother sparks remembrance.
When its time to take our leave,
We kiss delicate forehead and cheeks.
Tender voices bid her goodbye.
Do I stand between now and eternity?
I bow to kiss her hand once more.
Her eyes show bewilderment,
A child mistakenly left alone in the park.