What's Left

Yesterday we moved Mom to the rest home. It felt more like an installation to me than anything else. So many people to move a small roomful of stuff, sisters cloaking feelings behind masks of efficiency. But the feelings sure leaked out around the edges. My own mask is a lot more transparent than it used to be. Supposedly that's healthy.

At one point I looked at my little stooped mama, never wavering in her decision, resolutely helping to carry way-too-big boxes. I said aloud, "she's so brave," and burst into tears. As I hurried across the porch to recompose my mask, I came to a windchime, hanging limply in the still morning air. No more chimes left--just the gonger in the middle, and wispy strings all around it. Nothing left to make music.

It's time.