By Melissent Zumwalt
My arms wrap around Mom’s slight frame, hugging her, the slim drape of her shoulders engulfed by the ever-widening girth of my middle-aged bosom. The words exit my mouth, Have a safe flight—as if by saying this I offer her some form of security. Pressed together in this way, the contrast in our shapes becomes farcical. Neither of us recognize ourselves much these days.
The taut abdominal wall of my youth has softened into a pillowy mound, perfect for the gentle nestling of a lap cat or a small child. Year over year, my hips and hands and everything in between have spread an inch here and two over there, struggling against waistbands and straining the shirtfronts of a previous lifetime. Meanwhile, Mom’s body has contracted, shrunk, disappeared. Her inner cavity excavated. Disease and surgery robbing her of uterus, ovaries, appendix, thyroid. Left without enough mass, skin hangs on bone.
When I was a child, she took me to the zoo just once. Filled with excitement to see elephants for the first time, I galloped up a set of brick steps, slick with spring rain. The chain reaction was immediate—falling, crashing, brick piercing forehead, gorging deep enough to chip my skull. Mom picked me up as blood streamed down my face and sprinted nearly a mile back to the park entrance. Her legs and lungs propelling us towards help. I couldn’t comprehend what was happening around me, my vision obscured by a crimson curtain. But wrapped in her arms, I felt no fear. Her body had always protected mine.
Now, I wish my figure could shield hers from the giants who loom. Those who become impatient with her slow-moving shuffle towards the entrance, crowding up on her, mumbling under their breath, jostling her bad shoulder as she struggles to push open the entry door, unable to lift anything greater than waist high any more.
Since Dad passed away, Mom has been seizing what time remains for her, trying new experiences, reaching for grander adventures—even when her plans are ill-advised or ill-conceived (like attempting her first marathon without proper training or moving back into a two-story house from her age-in-place condo). Maybe because I never bore children of my own, I affectionately tell people her simultaneous need for my assistance and disregard for my guidance makes it feel as though I have a 70-something teen-ager. She even came home recently with her first tattoo—a flower with three fallen petals to represent each of her deceased husbands—etched into the underside of her frail forearm.
As I send her off alone on her travels, I wonder: is this how she felt? As she watched me grow and go out into the world? So worried, so helpless, so longing to defend? My voice trails after her, parroting back the same instructions she’s given me over the years, Call me when you get there.
Melissent Zumwalt is an artist and administrator who lives in Portland, Oregon. Her written work has appeared in the Whisk(e)y Tit Journal, Arkana, Longridge Review, Full Grown People, Pithead Chapel and elsewhere. Read more at: melissentzumwalt.com
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