Selfie

   When I lean over my mom's face, she looks back with such simple readiness to be happy that it hurts to look in her eyes. Are they gray or are they blue, I don't know, because I am backpedaling out of there, unlocking from that gaze as quickly as I can, and telling jokes at her so I can escape before the unfairness of our situation becomes too much. And I don't want to be an adult.

   I want to get out of there, go someplace else, someplace before, some place where I can't see her eyes and so can imagine that she is still my heart's first home.

   Or I can stand there and kid myself that she still is. She might even tell me, "I love you. So. Much." I might even know that she does, until the aides come in and she tells them the same damn thing.