I pour a cup of coffee for my mother and dilute it one third with water, for she doesn't like the strong Italian roast I make. I feel her watching me as I pour French vanilla creamer in a steady stream, then add four teaspoons of sugar.
"More sugar," she says, as I knew she would. No matter how much I sweeten it, she always asks for more.
I add another heaping spoonful, stir, and carry the cup to where she hunches on a wooden kitchen chair. Once so strong with perfect posture she was proud of, her back now curls like a shrimp, and her eyes, pale blue as a spring sky, are watery with the poor vision of old age. Wisps of hair once as naturally crisp and white as wedding cake frosting now cling in sparse yellowed curls to her head, and the pink of her scalp shows through. She's wearing an old nightgown she won't let me replace and stained knitted slippers frayed at the edges.
"Here's your coffee, Mom." She lays her asthma inhaler on the table and takes the cup in both hands.
No thanks from her, but I never expect thanks anymore. I know she believes she thanks me, just as she believes she's still tall and healthy, still believes her forgetfulness is "rare, just occasional little lapses that everyone has," still believes she's in charge of her life, her family, her world. Of me.
I hear something rattle in her breathing and she clears her throat, then begins coughing. By the time I return with Kleenex, the coffee is spilled on the placemat, her nightgown, her slippers, and the floor.
"You filled the cup too full," she says with real anger.
I take it from her and return to the coffee maker. I press both palms flat to the cold granite counter, taking a deep breath as I hear her say, "Use more sugar this time."
I pour another cup, diluting it one third with water.
Manipulated Image of a doll by Selkie Whitebear. Used with permission.