Mom at 90

In this piece, the author struggles with the mortality of her aging mother.

Mom at 90
In the nursing home, Mom is melting into an amorphous blob of pureed diet, incontinence, gagging, and throwing up. Unfortunately, her mind is sharp, and she knows her body is declining and that she cannot return to her home of 70 years

She screams with fear and loss of a future. My words of comfort are empty. I falsely compliment her on her bravery, knowing I could never be brave.

I am drying into a brittle, skinny branch on a tall beech tree standing tall in my ravine.

I use the little sap remaining to decide on the best possible plan for Mom. A breeze rustles the leaves in the strong branches above, and my best plan becomes unworkable.

The wind gusts. Too much will break my tenuous connection.

I will fall to the forest floor, where I will rot. If I field one more phone call requiring me to
choose between Hell No. 1 and Hell No. 2 for Mom, my wood will crumble. Each decision will rip the brittle wood, leaving me with a thinner branch.

My dried wood fibers lose their connection to the tall, strong beech. The dried leaves hug my brittle shards. The slugs look at me with mucous eyes. Are they here for her? For me.