Finally

A poem by Leanne Grabel

Bingo was the last game I ever played with my mother.

Skilled Nursing. Medicaid-funded. Mill Valley, California.

Sad corral outside the final rodeo.

Sag and bones.

The landscaping was luscious, the desserts well-designed.

And all the shiny staff had pleasant accents.

The residents were so old, however, they'd become exhibitions.

The spectrum of decline tilted rapidly downward.

My mother still had many sustained moments of lucidity.

But then she'd spin out through a chaos of eras.

She’d forgotten all deaths and kept asking for

phone numbers of the dead.

She also kept asking for her purse, her purse.

Still so worried about her purse.

There was nothing in her purse but a

crumple of singles and tissues.

And the men at the place were already ghosts, gray as ash.

They were folded into chairs like poorly erased commas.

The Bingo cards were the size of TV tables.

The Bingo pieces were the size of dinner plates.

Some of the people stared oddly at the Bingo cards

as if staring at a plumbing leak.

They cocked their heads like dogs

or like Florence, who was bent completely sideways.

Frank moved so slowly

it seemed he was mocking moving slowly.

I offered to help him but he batted me away.

Yes, I took it as a personal rejection . . . for a second.

My mother had three cards going at once.

And she Bingoed three times.

Everyone Bingoed at least once, even Frank.

But I didn't.

That was the last time I saw my mother conscious.

Six weeks later she woke up comatose.

I sat there and watched her die.

It took six days.

I didn't say much.

I held her hand.

Her hand was warm as a baby’s.

That was rare.

Her hand was floppy as an exercise band.

That was rare.

The 6th day she opened her eyes and died.

Her eyes were gelatinous.

I painted our fingernails gold.

I felt generous and calm, like her daughter.

That was rare.

I kissed my mother on the mouth for the first time in years.

I kissed my mother on the mouth for all those six days.

I think I finally remembered a child’s love for Mommy

enormous as a lake.

Hear Leanne read her poem:

FinallyLeanne Grabel

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Leanne Grabel is a writer, illustrator, performer and retired special education teacher. We published her humorous piece, Vanity the Hound, in July 2024. In love with mixing genres, Grabel has written and produced numerous spoken-word multi-media shows, including "The Lighter Side of Chronic Depression"; "Anger: The Musical"; and "The Little Poet." Grabel was the 2020 recipient of Soapstone's Bread and Roses Award for contributions to women's literature in the Pacific Northwest.

Image:

Hands by Malin K.