Today

   The nursing home finally lifted the flu quarantine that turned me around at the front door before and after Christmas and before and after New Year's, and I was able to go in. Not that it was something I looked forward to; the long break, added to the interim between Arts Center sessions, had been an emotional vacation. No struggle to prep something to teach; no struggle to force myself over to the home; no struggle to recover from visiting. An ease of time in which to focus on working at the paper: pleasure.

   She was already in the dining hall, parked halfheartedly within the realm of tables and left there to block traffic eventually and thus be moved to her place by someone other than the aide who left her. 
   Her eyes were narrow slits and dark. It’s possible nobody was home.
   
   But I had come all the way. So I found a chair and noticed that, as I took off my coat, Someone was there.
   She would say nothing, so I sat down and sang. At first I sang at her, but in a while I was singing for her and then — not too long later — with her.  Our roster of greatest hits:
   "How Much Is the Doggy in the Window."
   "Blue Skies."
   "If You Were the Only Boy in the World."
   "Tennessee Stud."
   "Blueberry Hill."
   "Mister Sandman."
   
   An aide apologized that we needed to move out of the way; they were bringing the people in for dinner. So I pushed Mom to the feeding table where she always eats and settled down beside her on my knees.
   "Over there," she said. "The beautiful light still there."
   And she rolled her eyes toward a sconce.
   Mom hadn’t seen the dining hall in however many days the long quarantine lasted. She was reassured that the sconce was still there. She thought it was beautiful.
   
   Other than singing a stitch of "Doggy In the Window" with me, all she said for the next 45 minutes was that the beautiful light was still there. But her eyes widened, and crinkled. She wriggled her nose like a bunny. We guffawed. Michael called on the phone, and she read his name off the cellphone screen while he babbled amusingly. One of the less demented residents tucked a napkin over her chest and sang in with me on "Hey, Ho, Nobody Home."

   When I slipped away to check out the socks situation in her room, Mom was grinning and looking around at the other people at her table. Eyes bright.

   I am afraid to be glad that she is alive and apparently going to live on a while longer. I am afraid to be glad. 
   But I AM glad.
   Happy New Year, Mom. I hope you see it through.