A15
Collective Memory
Excerpt from collection:Call it Awash: Stories and aphorisms.

may

“Mom won’t make it through the night,” August’s uncle Don said.
August’s father had to work into the night,
so he stayed with his uncle at the hospital
to be with his mother.
“Sit by her side and squeeze this when she groans
or if you see her make a face like she’s chewing on sour lemons.
Squeeze this button to make her feel better.”
Don left the hospital
with a twelve-year-old in charge of his mother’s morphine drip.

The button makes the beeping slow down, August remembered.
I press the button and she smiles now like yes,
that’s right. She smiles now like
picking me up and spinning round;
when the background is blurred
but white teeth and stretched lips
are in full view.
I don’t like the new wig, he thought.
It isn’t you, maman, it isn’t you.
It’s lopsided; put your hair on straight.
And too short, where is your long hair?
This one is too itchy and short, like a doll’s head,
and more purple than brown.

August’s mother died in the morning.

Ruth Crimson-Forde