by Jacqueline Langille
You will get on a plane again,
in the after.
You will wear a mask, because.
You will barely breathe for two hours.
Because.
The flight goes fast and well. All those nerves were for nought.
As usual.
On the ground, outside the airport,
the home province smells of fir trees and diesel construction machines.
Your brother's wife claims you
in her newish car, burgundy upholstery,
faint discolored spots on the back seat: likely grandbaby vomit.
The two-hour drive goes fast and well.
You ache to decline: "Stay at our house!"
Their tiny house
where everyone sits too close to everyone else at all times.
You stay. You breathe.
Your mother denies the form of you
who shows up at the care facility.
"Too old, too fat, too grey."
Too long away. Lockdowns and reasons.
Your mother warms to your voice
when you explain who you are
and why you're visiting.
"My daughter, so proud."
In the lounge, you will drink tea together,
brewed in the Maritime way:
strong, dark, Red Rose or King Cole.
Or you will go for a drive in the countryside
– it’s all countryside –
with your brother as chauffeur
and prompter when the conversation lags.
You chat about the pleasant weather this spring.
Blossoms, sunshine, birds.
Your mother recalls some words for birds:
cardinal, blue jay, chickadee.
You tell a story about feeding the birds last winter.
Your mother listens. That is new.
Your mother wants a treat.
She fails to remember the words
to get what she wants.
Your brother knows. You know.
She always wants ice cream.
After a two-hour visit,
long enough and yet not long enough,
you say goodbye at the care facility.
“Thank you for visiting me,” she says to you,
a stranger again after a tiring day.
“May I?” You hug your mother after 5 years away.
She smells the same.
Clean clothes. Moisturizer. Vanilla ice cream.
***
When you haven't written a poem for many years but you want it out in the world: blog it! ❤️
