The Sea Swan

On Christmas my mother is

ill in the bathtub, skin

loose like her earlobes as

she sits knock kneed in

an inch of lukewarm water.

She calls me and I

yell back that I don’t want

to look at her naked,

I’m an adult now and it

seems intrusive.

I have a gift for you, she

says, behind the bedroom

door, and so I pick up the

white box and

sit beside the tub.

I try not to stare at her body and

focus on the layer of grime

beneath the shampoo bottles or

her pajama pants bunched on

the floor. But all I see is the

swelling of her face and

the slouching of her spine,

and in the box is a

gray sweater for me.

I think that if she had just

saved her money she could

go to the doctors instead, or

get some health insurance or

cable TV.

She keeps saying I wish I could

give you more, other kids get

more, and I feel a wave of

pity and pride half watching my

naked mother hold her

own hands.