Lily of the Nile

The sun rises up by my windowsill.
I can hear the monotonous chirping of sparrows.
I locate the flock with my cataract clad eyes.
They have food to forage, little ones to feed, nests to build.
For them it’s a busy day.
And for me? I chuckle. I envy them.
After the strokes and the partial paralysis,
and the accident that cracked my pelvis,
I have the right to envy them.

Right after my first stroke, when my flaccid limbs looked like withered artichoke,
and my jaws resembled droopy daisies on a scalding summer day,
my darling son who called once a month
offered to take me to the doctor’s appointment.

I rested in my wheelchair dressed up in cotton, and watched him ram the faulty elevator button.
“Mom I’ll have to lift you,” he said with a groan,
and I wondered why I wasn’t wound by the vexation in his tone.
And when he heaved me up bridal style,
I thought I saw his father in his profile.
I pictured his chiseled face, his bewitching smile,
and marveled how half a century ago
he had similarly raised me and called me, Lily of the Nile.

And when the home nurse was away on a week’s vacation,
they sent in my granddaughter to her exasperation.
On the first day she appeared ebullient- bathed me, dressed me,
and said my white hair was brilliant.
She fed me my lunch plain rice and tuna,
and asked me about the time when I first met her grandpa.

But after two days when her patience was wearing thin,
she could barely lift her eyes off her cell phone screen.
I felt my lentil soup trickle down the corners of my lips,
and waited for her to notice and wipe it off with one of those corn yellow flannel bibs.
And when she couldn’t hide her repugnance emptying my bedpan,
I recalled how I used to feign amusement cleaning her pink potty
while she told me her stories of Superman.
At the end of the week when it was time for her to leave,
she embraced me and kissed my cheek.
The broad smile couldn’t hide her delight of freedom from my putrid self.

Now that I’m sitting at the corner of the front right pew by the choir,
I’m finally free form the horrid block that lies in the coffin up front on display.
The church is teeming with men and women clad in black.
It is hilarious that I can’t recognize the plump woman ostentatiously wiping her eyes,
or the man with the questionably runny nose vigorously shaking his head from side to side.
But I am listening to my granddaughter sobbing into the mike.
She is telling a story of how she once braided my hair in astonishing details.
I still believe she’ll succeed in the literary career she craves to pursue.
My son follows next.
“She felt like a feather in my arms…”
I can’t concentrate on his muffled voice any longer.
Amid the wreath of white tulips engulfing the pecan brown coffin,
there lay a single amethyst purple Lily of the Nile.