#davidanthoneycarrillo
I find her sitting
alone in her room—
resting after
making the bed.
It took an hour
to get dressed and
comb her hair,
and now she’s tired.
“What day is it?”
she asks.
“It’s Sunday.,” I say,
let’s take a walk.”
She frowns.
I tell her
a bowl of oatmeal
is cooling
on the table.
It has blueberries,
shredded coconut,
and a hint
of maple syrup.
I prepare her meals,
or she won’t eat.
She doesn’t do that
for herself anymore.
Another ten minutes
go by. She disappears
into the bathroom
for the third time.
I check on her:
“
Mom, you okay?”
Making sure
she hasn’t fallen.
“I’m brushing
my hair,” she says,
fluffing it
before the mirror.
She has a cane
but wants to take my arm
for the short walk
to the breakfast table.
Her cereal, buttered toast
with strawberry jam,
her meds, and a glass of water
are at her place.
But she can’t find
her hearing aids—
until they’re found
in her pocket.
Before she takes a bite,
she asks, “Can I have
a napkin, please?” She can’t
eat without one.
“Yes, Mom,” I say,
realizing I’ve forgotten
to pour the tea.
She’ll ask for that next.
Sometimes I answer
with good patience.
Other days, my voice snaps—
sharp as a twig.
“What day is it,”
she asks.
Her almond-shaped eyes
constrict, having again,
misplaced time.
“Sunday,” I say.
“
It’s your birthday.”
She’s eighty-nine
saturated years.
Captured by a cloud
drifting past her window—
she finds wonderment
I’m too busy to share.
Oh, Cosmic Twin—
my celestial clock,
your timeless essence
touches the sky.
Mom just needs someone
to help ease old age
and suffering.
Is that so much to ask?
—•0•—
Nov 20, 2025
Nov 20, 2025 at 1:55 PM UTC