My Mother’s Bed

In recollections of my mother’s bed
I see both chapel and apothecary

In her left drawer was a Bible,
black and creased
a bucket drawer full of pills and ointments:
        hydrocortisone cream,
        pills for this and that,
        a draught for her thyroid,
        sticky cough lozenges and
        old panados
        a folder packed with email printouts of her husband’s liaisons with other women,
              her last will and official papers for her company

Facing bed was a shelf full of handbags and special shoes
size seven heels
I could never fit at the ripe size eight and a half!

I practiced makeup on my mother while she lay in bed
Teaching her tricks and trends I picked up on YouTube:
How to minimize shadows under her eyes,
How to achieve the no make-up, made-up face
I loved to dress her the way I dressed the actors of my first American film feature,
We would listen to the Voice of Africa at night after dinner while the babies were asleep
And exchange stories like besties and cackle into the night
We sounded like witches brewing a takedown,
Perhaps we were!
I remember washing her body and hair
My mother, too broken
Too frail to lift herself from the centuries & cemeteries of paint
It is my load now too
She carried me for nine months, it’s the least I can do.

My mother’s hands
Small and brown, shriveled but soft
Both healing and harming
Could do anything and everything
Yet couldn’t muster enough courage to leave the one thing
Crushing her spirit

Lying in my mother’s bed
Both chapel and apothecary
We exchanged stories like besties
Cackling late into the night while
Drinking sweet white Robertson wine
We sounded like witches brewing a takedown
Perhaps we were
Perhaps we were!