nearby

I hate the feeling of helplessness

of sitting. suffering. silence. Meanwhile, 

nearby

someone who’s suffering too

but while my hurt is personal, abstract, 

            intangible in a way

hers is never ending, all consuming, 

dictating her every breath and movement. 

 

Every so often, a whimper ekes out, 

betraying her pain and agony and defeat

            but just as suddenly as it appeared, the raw emotion scurries 

            away 

            and she 

            nods                off. 

            Chin to her chest, eyes closed,                       silent. 

            

            The minutes tick by as I sit nearby

            reading                  maybe. 

            Looking at photos perhaps. 

            Wanting to write it all down but not knowing if 

            there will be    any      words  to         write

 

            and then another sob. 

            This one is a little stronger, longer. 

            I reach over 

            and hold her arm, giving it a conciliatory pat that 

            feels almost patronizing                                                                                     

            perfunctory. 

            and ask the useless question: 

                        Anything I can do, Mom?

 

            She shakes her head. 

            Well sorry, she doesn’t actually shake her head, 

            She responds in the negative with a weak and faded no 

                        resolute, independent, dying. 

            

            I’m nearby

            hour after hour

            searching her face for a semblance of the woman

                        I never truly knew.

 

            This is where it gets messy 

                        well,

messier. 

            Where the guilt saunters in and sidles on up in between us,

            assuring me that nearby is not close enough. 

            

            I sit and try and be okay with,

            no that’s not it, at peace with? well, no. 

                      maybe simply accept the fact 

that I was never on great terms with my mom in high school,

through no fault of hers

            I might add. 

 

I was an arrogant teen you could say

not obviously or excessively so 

            but I was. 

I resented my parents for who knows what, 

not being “cool” enough, whatever the hell that means. 

 

I didn’t like that my mom helped coach my volleyball team one year

never mind that was the only reason I           

            could afford to play

I don’t remember any of our conversations in the car, 

            to and from practice. 

Did we even talk?

 

Ah, another whimper 

stops my musings in               their                 tracks. 

What to do      what to do

As I sit here, 

helpless,

nearby.