Traveling Notes - 1. Marking the Hours

I sit here at my Mother's bedside.

She is terribly weak, needs to eat, but finds it is very hard to do. The hospital food does not make the task easier. We two amused ourselves by watching YouTube clips of Victor Borge, whom she very much enjoyed, and I fear I have lulled her to sleep with the sound of my voice, reading an online novel by W. Somerset Maugham. I could not find a 'cheery' book, as she wanted, but then, she had no suggestions, either, being tired out by the work of healing, poor dear.

Chuckles
and brief wan smiles
return as gentle ghosts
to a beloved face, ravaged and
deep-creased;
bright eyes
bid haunting welcome to old rooms,
cobwebbed, yet remembered
with glad, fading
spirits.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Sleep came
creeping on words
forgotten since college,
read to the room by the awkward
third son;
laughter
and shared humor pass the long hours
twixt meals and medicine,
the twin tools of
torture.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

The North Carolina that I can see from the big window in Mom's room consists of a wide expanse of rambling hospital building, angles and planes of jumbled roofscape covered in a grey pebbled material, and a deep green wall of trees beyond. Above it all is a sky which starts out each morning as blue as any forget-me-not, but inevitably gives way to afternoon cumulus piled high like mountains of pillows.

The day's
collected heat
radiates from brickwork
in waves that greet massive piled
cloud ranks
tumbling
down steep, green, far-off mountainsides
with colors so vivid
to paint the sky
in tears.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Within the room, we have a motley collection of monitors and cords, though fewer than when I arrived. Still, the specialized hospital bed inflates and deflates itself flatulently, making minute adjustments and changes to try and ward off the bedsores and aches to which those immobilized by injury and recuperation are prey.

The rooms
adjacent swell
with high voiced beeps and tones,
playing soli against the ripieno
rising,
tutti,
nurses and staff playing their parts
in the brisk concerto
of organized
healing.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

I am glad Mom got a respite from the dull minimalist composition that is all she can hear. Mom, who takes an interest in everyone and everything around her, cannot help being bored without people with whom she may interact. She slept yesterday afternoon, and is sleeping now. Yesterday evening, my brother trotted out his iPhone, and called up my eldest brother, putting him on speakerphone. Then there was a call to some old friends, and a call home to those who did not make the trip with me. Mom seemed happy, and as animated as she has been in awhile.

Distant voices
present as lightning, sweet with blessings,
betray fond tears.

Love from those so far away
comes to hold the pain at bay;

Cheerful tidings,
welcome as unexpected rainbows,
assuage sadness.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

My brother and I sang old songs to her,
familiar as a favorite sweater,
and she fell asleep smiling.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~

This is a hard trip. I cannot help thinking that the window for actual recovery is quite narrow.

Watchful is the weary fighter,
hard the mortal battle waged,
hold to love and living tighter,
so the hurt may be assuaged.
~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Sundown is often a hard time.

My brother will arrive soon,
and we will try to
keep mom's spirits up in song
until she can rest.