The wheelchair fits in my car, just so.

I’m good at this, after umpteen dinners at Perko’s, my Mom looking glum over her Chicken-Fried Chicken.  The faint smell of urine.

I’m a good girl.  I’m good.

Last week she was The Good Mom; “I don’t know what I’d do without you”, she said over her Chicken-Fried Chicken.  My son, there with his slightly-pregnant wife, beautiful in her happiness, was there to witness.  He’s kind, like me.  He looked, I thought, bored.

Ten days later, the familiar fall from grace.  “You’re so close, and you never come”.

I could have come Tuesday.

Always more I could have done.

Sometimes I imagine life after Mom.  Will I be, at last, guiltless, or will my fountain of blame flow unimpeded? 

Always more I could have done.

Tonight, the Chicken-Fried Chicken of redemption, perhaps.  Minutes of silent scrutiny, then “You should see a stylist and see if they can do something about your hair”.  She’s cute in her predictability.  Just now, I hate her.  I hate that I can’t grow up.

In the car, her hand, all bones and veins, rests in her lap.  I take it in mine, big, strong, wrinkly.  “You’re a good kid,” patting my hand.  My Mom.  My Mommy.

I tuck her in, white on white, and smooth her hair: “I love you”.  I mean it.  We’re both so small.

I dream she’s dead, and I’m lost, looking for the Mom I wanted.  In the cold dark I press against Walter’s back, warm, solid.  Here.  Skin-cotton-skin.  The house finch outside sings its first song.

There’ll never not be more I could have done.