When They Look Into Her Eyes

When They Look Into Her Eyes

When they look into her eyes
and see confusion and fear,
they do not know
how those eyes once danced with merriment.

Or that she feels betrayed
by unsteady legs
that once carried her —
running to school,
and even recently up the stairs,
perhaps protesting the twelve-hour days
she spent standing at work.

Her voice — now too quiet to hear —
once embarrassed us with its volume,
and also called us in from play
when darkness fell.

She could do math in her head
faster than my sister with her slide rule,
and sensed how every story
would unfold, right from the start.

And so today I sort through the pieces,
wondering what is disease
and what is still her.

I smile at the day she slipped
from her wheelchair to her knees,
and quipped to the worker who rushed to help,

“I thought I’d say a few words for you while I was down here.”

And yet, today at the restaurant,
she refuses to eat her salad —
says there are bugs in it,
just chomping away.

I see that help is unsolicited and unwanted,
and yet, when it does not arrive,
she is hurt by the quiet neglect,
the way her needs pass unseen.

Mom, in summary,
still the same complicated, confounding
collection of all that is woman,
that is present,
that is her.