ring, slack-jawed, open mouthed. i find it impossible to imagine what they might be looking at.
when i walk into the dining room on the day of my mother's birthday, i see that she has already been served lunch. the staff has forgotten to hold it back. though i told them a week ago that i would be providing lunch. she hasn’t touched anything on her tray except a piece of carrot cake, which she holds in her hands. the icing is smeared on her hands and face. i don't want my friends to see her smeared with icing, so i wet a paper towel and wipe her. this fills me with a terrible tenderness, recalling, as it does. a gesture i have performed for my children. as i wipe my mother's face, i see that her skin is still beautiful i hold her chin in my hand and kiss her forehead. i tell her it's her birthday, that she's ninety years old. "how did that happen?" she asks. "i can't understand how that could happen."