At 99
By Charlie Becker
First we counted
her years
like pennies
in a dollar
three, four, eleven
ninety-eight, ninety-nine
taken from a bank
lined with terracotta
shapeable and earthly.
Then we counted
her breaths
like rooms
in a guest house
singles, doubles
suites, master-suites
sequenced and enhanced
inviting rose to her cheeks.
And then we counted
her heartbeats
like snowflake parachutes
into a lake
one thousand, ten thousand
infinite each
unique and liquid
absorbed by cells
circling
beneath
the body surface.Our mother
her archival self
always knew
how to live
with a purpose
a checklist
shopping chart
supper at six
taking care
of everyone else first
organizing hours
all around us.
When we were kids
she taught us
our numbers
one, two, buckle my shoe
three, four, shut the door
but as mom got older
and older
she couldn’t seem to remember
how many, how many hours
until dinner, how many years
since Dad died, how much more PT
before she could walk again
and finally go home.
It overwhelmed her
each day as she searched
longing for her younger self
or an absolute
escape.
her years
like pennies
in a dollar
three, four, eleven
ninety-eight, ninety-nine
taken from a bank
lined with terracotta
shapeable and earthly.
Then we counted
her breaths
like rooms
in a guest house
singles, doubles
suites, master-suites
sequenced and enhanced
inviting rose to her cheeks.
And then we counted
her heartbeats
like snowflake parachutes
into a lake
one thousand, ten thousand
infinite each
unique and liquid
absorbed by cells
circling
beneath
the body surface.Our mother
her archival self
always knew
how to live
with a purpose
a checklist
shopping chart
supper at six
taking care
of everyone else first
organizing hours
all around us.
When we were kids
she taught us
our numbers
one, two, buckle my shoe
three, four, shut the door
but as mom got older
and older
she couldn’t seem to remember
how many, how many hours
until dinner, how many years
since Dad died, how much more PT
before she could walk again
and finally go home.
It overwhelmed her
each day as she searched
longing for her younger self
or an absolute
escape.
Today, approaching her century
all we have left to do now
is smooth her hair
search her eyes
steady our hands
as we offer ice chips
on a plastic spoon
catnap while she sleeps, sleeps
then simply stay present
in the space
between here
and after.
Because each resonant
weakened heartbeat
or breath
matters just as much
as her first and second
ever
and always did.
Charlie Becker is a retired speech pathologist who earned a BA from Indiana University and an MA from California State University, Los Angeles and who now studies and writes poetry with the Community Literature Initiative in Los Angeles. He also helps bring poetry to under-served high school students through the Living Writers Series and L.A. Unified Schools. Charlie's first book of poems and drawings, Friends My Poems Gave Me, was published by World Stage Press in 2016. Some of his poems have also been published in Passager Journal, The Comstock Review, The Dandelion Review, and Silver Pinion. Although Charlie is a vegetarian, he has written some delicious poems about making gumbo for the holidays. He presently lives in Laguna Woods, California.