How Small

by Lori Desrosiers

How small is your world, Mother.
Each day you wake, slowly.
The aide gets your breakfast,
always two poached eggs,
orange juice, decaf coffee
and rye toast. You never want
to get dressed, prefer to sit
for hours in your recliner
in red bathrobe and blanket.
You look at the New York Times
even though you no longer retain
what you read. The days I come
to take you out we have to argue.
You say, I am too tired, I can’t do this.

If I could, I would not disturb,
not force you out of your chair.
Are you afraid, my mother who
traveled, who wrote, who sang?
Daughter of Russian Jewish
immigrants, who survived
poverty, the depression, two wars,
who worked, raised her children
alone after divorce, how is it
you still look beautiful at 93?
In your little world, you fall
asleep sitting in your chair.