How to Love Your Mother at 98

When you wake from a troubled sleep,

     after you’ve used the bathroom, don’t go back.

Walk down the hall and push her hollow-core

     door open. She’ll be there, smaller than the last time

you visited her, sitting on the side of the bed

     having just used her commode. Before

she can ask, walk to it and lift the cover,

     then the seat. Pull out the bucket that holds

her still warm urine, take it to her bathroom,

     empty it in the toilet. Wipe it out. Rinse it. Dry it.

Spray it with lavender-scented Lysol. Return it

     to the O-ring. Cover it. Lower the seat and lid.

Accept what love is now the wars have ended.

     Say, do you need anything else?

She’ll say, I could’ve done it myself, and it’s true

     but she’s fallen so many times from her glaucoma

or vertigo or both. Unwilling to wait, she’s tipped

     the bucket—urine all over the tile and the rug—

half a day’s cleaning for her aide after lifting her

     from the floor.

Just smile and ask, do you want help with the bed?

     And together begin to stretch the rumpled sheets

in place, then the coverlet and the coral crocheted

     afghan you made that rests near the edge.

Replace the pillows. Then help her bent body inch

     toward the wheelchair. It’s time for her shower.

Today, you’ll do this together like two women in a

     French painting. Her dentures she’ll clean on her own.