The Game Show Network is blaring as Dad and I walk into the living room after meeting with the caregiver agency next door. Sitting up in her hospital bed, Mom is pulling a brush through her long gray tangles.
“Looks like someone’s ready for her convertible ride!” I say, beaming at her enthusiasm, but quickly wincing as I notice the dreadlocks forming in the back. I take the brush and gently move through the thin strands as best I can, slipping a hair tie around in a low ponytail, knowing she’d wear a baseball cap for the trip.
“My shoes,” she squeaks out, pointing toward the couch.
I assumed we would need to lift her into the wheelchair and then the car. After almost two weeks in the hospital, I have no confidence she’ll be able to stand. But I gingerly slip the sneakers over her feet, watching her face for signs of pain. They slide on easily and I tie the laces like I did for my daughters only a few years ago. We slowly swing her legs over the side of the bed, so she’s facing me with her Nikes on the floor. I smile, trying to hold her steady without any back support.
“Thank you,” she says in a whisper.
“Of course.” I smile back.
She grabs my biceps and looks deep into my eyes. “No. Thank you for everything.” Her tone implies so much left unsaid over the previous weeks - and years.
With my eyes trained on hers, I reply “You’re welcome,” my heart swelling like the Grinch.
Mom died on May 14; this photo was taken on May 4.