Tears For My Mother

Bowling There are too many words. Try to know all the names. What this is called, what that is called. Remember the children's names and birthdays. The girlfriend, the boyfriends. Where the stamps are, how to turn on the microwave. Phone numbers. Days of the week. Who's living and who's dead. And then there will be a head full of so much that it has to empty out and some names go away. Some words aren't there. Why does everything need a name? God already named all the animals. Four across. Seven down. To imitate. Ape. You always see this one. Three letter word. This is my winter of missed contents. This sweater is unraveling. There are too many but a letter fits in every box. I hold tight the ink thing and cribble my name in these secret ages. Pages. These pages. If I fill in the boxes and write my name I won’t forget. She has a name. Everything has a name. Some things, two names. I winter in the dark. It's dark in the morning. And when I sleep sometimes it's light outside. She comes and goes but brings me a bagel and when I chew it my teeth hurt, and there's blood on the cream cheese. My mother visits me, but she never comes in. Only at the square thing I see her face looking at me. I talk and she talks the same words. She makes fun of me and followed me here but she's dead on the wall. Four letters. Five across. To adore. When they brought the baby. Love. Every letter in a box. To adore. I had two children, and when they brought the baby to hold, "Here is your baby." I uncovered the blanket and saw toes. Upside down but soon turned around. I was married but he died and I am 23-skidooed. Living with that bitch who yells and leaves and there is no food until I find it hidden behind small doors in boxes or frozen hard like ice we used to have in Brooklyn when winters were not dark like in Florida. Widowed. Not skidooed. When the dreams happen I see him talking. All the names I know and things belong where they belong. No life unraveling and all the boxes have letters that make words I know. Six down, five letters. To wed. M-a-r-r-y. I try to hold on to him but he always goes away and my eyes open and I awake to the unraveling and hungry. George. That's who. Then I see him on the wall and know that he is ten across, four letters, not living. So I will fill in the boxes with what's left and write the names I know. * I called my brother today to try and tell him that she's crazy. I can't take it anymore. He said I was overreacting, that she's in a new place, doesn't know anybody, has no car and must depend on me, or the buses which she doesn't know. It's easy for him to come up with a list of why she's really normal, why her behavior is acceptable. Rationalizations that sound good from 1500 miles away. "That all sounds nice," I said, "but none of it is true." "Why not?" he said. "Because your reasons for why she's how she is has nothing to do with the things she does." "What things?" I tried to think of a few good ones so he'd immediately see what I had to live with. I scanned the kitchen, saw her half-eaten bagel in the sink, smears of cream cheese on the counter top. I could still see her fingerprints in the hardening glop. I grabbed a sponge. "She doesn't eat," I finally said, wiping the stuff. "What do you mean she doesn't eat? Is she on a hunger strike?" He laughed. "No, asshole," I said. "She eats a bagel that I bring her after I get off my shift." I threw the sponge into the sink. "So, she eats," he said. "No. That's all she eats. When I come home at ten she's waiting for that bagel like she's had nothing else all day. She pulls it out of my hand and tears into it. Like a starving dog. She hardly stops to take a breath." He didn't say anything. I started pacing around. I couldn’t keep still. Then I guess the light was just right, and I saw her footprints on the linoleum. Dark, dirty. "And I think she's stopped washing," I said. "What do you mean?" he said. I could tell he didn't even want to ask me that. He didn't want to know what I meant. But I was going to tell him anyway. "She never takes a shower. I don't know if she brushes her teeth anymore. She smells disgusting." "I'm sure she takes a shower. Just when you're not there." "Listen! I'm here! You're the one who's half a country away. If I say she stinks, she stinks! And she stinks! It's disgusting! Like living with an animal!" I took a breath and waited for him to come back with some smart aleck remark. He thinks he's so smart, my brother. "Well?" I said. "She's not crazy," he said. "Thanks," I said. "You're a big help." Another long silence. This was costing me money. "And she doesn't know my name," I said. "What are you talking about?" "She never calls me by my name." "What does she call you?" he said. "She calls me Bitch," I said. He laughed. "It's not funny!" I said. "She knows your name, Jazz," he said. "Okay," I said. "Next time you call, ask her my name, okay?" "Sure. I will. And she'll know it." "You just ask her," I said. "See what she says." There was another long space. I could feel the tears filling up my eyes. I was feeling nauseous. I became aware of the smell of the condo suddenly. It reeked worse than a locker room. "Jazzy?" he said. "Yeah," I said, wiping my nose. "What else do you want me to do?" I didn't know. I didn't have an answer. I had no idea what I wanted him to do. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve.. "Help," I said. "Help how?" he said. "I don't know," I said. "Listen," he said, "I live far away. I can give you support. You can call me whenever you want. I'll call her tonight while you're at work and talk to her. I'll ask her about not showering. I'll ask her your name. I'm sure you'll realize you're wrong." "Okay," I said. "But as far as helping, you know, taking care of her. Well, that's your job." I nearly choked. The son of a bitch. "What do you mean? Why is it my job?" "Because you're the daughter," he said. So that was it. I was the daughter. He gets off scot free because he has a pair of balls. Little tiny ones, apparently. "I'm the daughter," I said. "What do you want from me? You're too young to live on your own. You had to move down there with her. You're stuck there, and she's getting older. And she's alone for the first time in 40 years. I'm sure that's what's going on. And you're seeing it in an extreme way, because you wish you were already eighteen so you could be out on your own." "And it's my job because I'm the daughter." "I'm sorry, Jazzy, but I can't do anything else. I'll call her tonight like I said. I'll call you more. But I have a life out here and I can't up and leave." It was time to hang up. I'd get nothing else. "Okay," I said. "You'll call her?" "Tonight. And I'll call you tomorrow before you go to work." "Okay. But she's crazy. And I hate her." "You don't hate your mother." "Call me tomorrow," I said. And I hung up. So now I knew I was really alone. And I knew I really hated her. And I knew she was really crazy. I was going to hide all the sharp knives. * This expanse. Huge expanse. Big thing I wake up in. This three letters four across expanse I wake up in. Sky. No. I don't wake up in the sky. That's five across three letters, the limit. Sky's the limit. Before I opened my eyes George came and sang to me. He never sang when he wasn't twenty-two down four letters not living. But he sang and I loved his voice singing. Then my eyes woke up in. The bed. This huge bed I wake up in. I fight the sheets, sweat so much in this Florida. Alone in this place. What happened to my house? I used to have a house where George and I had two beautiful children that we named, one a poet and the other a flower and sometimes music.