The Call

The caregiver calls to tell me about mother,

but I know she hasn’t slept. The security videos

of her restless night populate my email’s inbox.

She turned and turned throughout the dark hours.

I’m 1,600 miles away and helpless. In need of divine

power, I decide to sing for an audience of one.

As I begin, I hear mother trying to follow,

trying to pull at some tangled string of memory

to release what once was. Music has charms

to soothe a savage breast, and maybe a failing mind.

When I finish the second hymn, I ask,

What’s your favorite? She says, the first thing to go

was my memory. Is it possible to forget a lifetime

of songs sung weekly? Some forget the name of their

spouse, their children, where they live;

so why not forget a beloved song? After, we think

of our blessings, say them aloud. We still have much

to be thankful for. Just when I think her mind is settled

for now, or worn out by agitation, she’s ready for more.

I let her talk as we enter the second hour, until

her words run out, until she’s more the self I knew.