My Mother’s Body

Every day, my mother says her body is like a stranger's house. No matter how long you stay, you will not remember where the bathroom is when you need it most. Recently, my mother says her body is shrinking. Day by day, inch by inch. She is now the size of a bedside table. I keep her in my bedroom. Before sleep, I stretch out my arm, offering my body as a safe house. Last night, I dreamed I was sleeping with a man in the shadow of a wardrobe in a stranger’s house. When I woke up, I confused my mother’s body with a lover’s. I always loved my mother as a daughter should, viscerally. Nowadays, I try not to get lost in other people's homes. I take care of my own. I paint the walls yellow, turn the lights on. Take long walks. My mother is now the size of a vegetable pot. I put her outside my house, under the porch. Every morning, when I go out, I fill my mother, the pot, with water.