She reads a magazine when we arrive
underlining each word with her finger.
Does she recognize those words
she loves? No matter,
The act pleases her.
She notices, then recognizes us
though our names escape her.
Blue eyes are warm when
she smiles; her arms reach
out from her wheelchair
to grasp our hands.
She brightens when I compliment
her on her cloud of thick white hair.
Chuckling, she boasts
she did it herself that morning
and swears the blue beaded top
she wears she found at Gimbels
for only a dollar ninety eight.
We laugh together.
We whisk her away in her wheelchair
headed for the ice cream parlor.
Mama grins as we cruise back
a century around striped chairs
and round tables. We order
a strawberry cone for her
which she licks daintily. I watch,
ready to help. She tips the cone
to trim the drips with her tongue.I relax, Mama can manage.