Passengers

Published in Under the Gum Tree, Spring 2025

Two items remain on the wall—the gold-framed mirror and the painting of the lady. I view these items from Mom’s twin bed.

She usually sleeps here, but today she’s slumped in the wheelchair, asleep, her bright-faced doll propped on her lap. I’m lying atop her bed, my body sinking into the flowered comforter. From here I take in what she sees everyday—window, treetops, painting. Right now, the clouds are rimmed with sunlight. Side by side, our arms almost touch. We are passengers, waiting.

Does she hear the chirping birds? The high-pitched screams of children playing? The faraway bark of that dog? I pretend that our bond is so profound that speaking is unnecessary. That over a lifetime as mother and daughter, we’ve already exchanged all the words.

I have stopped trying to entertain her with stories from the day and photos from my phone. I no longer ask if she’s hungry or if she wants ice cream. Now I just lie here, my head on her pillow, thinking how I’ve gotten used to seeing her in items she would never have chosen, like sweatpants and slippers. A bright coral manicure. A doll on her lap.

Mom arches her back, sighs and falls back to sleep. This is what she does now— drifts. Only occasionally do her eyes open and when they do she musters a pained smile. I don’t want her to feel like she has to smile.

“It’s okay,” I whisper.

She breathes and I take in her sleeping face—the high cheekbones, the craggy blue vein against her temple. I reach for her shoulder, so small it fits in my palm. I touch parts of her I have never felt—her smooth cheek (Pond’s?), the shallow dip where the collarbones meet. I touch her wrinkled forearm and the brown spots there. The truth? I want her to wake up, to tell me things. Like Thank you. Like I’m sorry. I want her to reach for me.

The painting of the lady has hung in every house we’ve ever lived in, always in the same place—above my mom’s desk. I’ve glanced its way hundreds of times, but it’s dark and old-fashioned and I’ve never been drawn to it. The woman appears well-to-do (a hat with a large feather, a fur collar around her neck). Her face is pale and still. Her blurred, brown eyes scream in anguish.

It’s warm in this room, like a baby’s nursery at naptime. I too feel drowsy, yet I am also acutely aware that my mom is dying, and here I am again, waiting for the smallest crumb to drop. Yet I know better. Her words have been swallowed up. She may or may not know who I am. Yet times like this I forget— my longing blinds me.

She is still striking. She would like to know this if she could—her beauty.

Who is this stranger who has lived with us forever? She is pained, afraid of something. Being known? She recedes into the dark.

A stream of sunlight pours onto Mom’s lap. I curse myself for not asking her more questions along the way, like Why this painting? Why the silence?

Two of her fingers are curled around the doll’s bare leg.

This is us—passengers, waiting.

I get up from the bed and take the seat next to her wheelchair. I move in close. The doll I set aside.

“Mom,” I whisper. I breathe her in, touch her small, warm hands. I take them inside mine, a feeling so strange and new and far too late but also right on time.

We stay his way for a long while. As she drifts, the sun slowly makes its way across the wall.