Shoulder Reconstruction

She is home from the hospital – right arm strapped to her side and across her chest, immovable. The empty right sleeve of her shirt swaying like a metronome, setting the tempo as she walks gingerly across the muddy lawn and up the steps to the house.

home at last –

greeting the dog

wrong handed

Three times a day I have to undo the straps and carefully straighten her arm, easing it against the spasms of muscle cramp. Lurid paisley bruises cover her chest, and a tiny line of stitches march millipede fashion across her collarbone. For ten minutes, three times a day, she has to remain motionless.

the third time

today –

that same cryptic crossword

Neither of us is ready for this role reversal. Not knowing where to look as I give her a sponge bath, trying to remain impersonal and unembarrassed as I soap her breasts, her nipples becoming erect in the cross draft from the door as I pat her dry… silly. I am the age she was when she gave birth to me.

washing

my mother’s breasts –

we both giggle

 

 

 

first published Winter Spin 2000