My mother always reminded me of a great white swan. It's because she has a sense of direction air-locked between her feathers of silky iron. I've never felt scared nuzzling under her as she flies.
I am sitting in the kitchen.
She is filling a pot with water.
She is using two hands.
Her back stiff.
I watch her try to shift the pot to stove,
sweat drips off her nose.
Her back quivers.
The pot crashes to ground
dragging my mother with it.
The water ripples on the floor.
Mom's hand is shaking, her face doesn't rise to mine. Just coast over her fingers . She mumbles, I'm fine, it's been hurting all day. She slumps.
Her wings slouch and give as they float on the water. I've seen her fall, tumble, and crash with enough force to spring back up, but there is something about slumping that’s too soft.
Swans are suppose to be able to fly as high as
28,000 ft and as fast as 80mph, but mom looks like she has been dipping into telephone poles, sliding down, her feathers are splintering. She can't even float on the water. Swans' necks always have an arc, but mom's face droops to her chest. Her body crimples.
Only her hand shakes. It's the only part of her that remembers how much she hates breaking.
Her life spent running from this moment, and it still has managed to catch her.
I'm standing here.
Wanting to do so many things, but don't know how because I don’t understand why this is happening so early . She always told me I would never need to worry about her because she was never going to drown, but by the way she slumps on the floor, I think she understand she can't soar anymore.
Her hand is rattling a tune that beats a new meaning of melody, but this is the first time I've heard it. I'm use to her bellowing from her throat as she trucks through clouds, I place my
head on her shoulder, listening as her wings begin to sink under. I've been told that there is beauty in hearing a swan before it dies.