You Are On The Floor Again
By: Loukia Borrell
The Bangor Literary Journal
2021
This time, the call came in while
I was out of town, helping your
granddaughter move out of her
college apartment. I sat on the
hotel bed, listening. Same story.
A nurse said they found you
on the floor, in another unit,
in someone’s room. Your wheelchair
nearby. No broken bones or cuts.
They put you back in your bed.
I wondered what was going
through your mind. Were you
looking for the beaded hairnet you kept
in a secret section of your wallet?
The special one you wore on windy Sundays.
We would walk into church and I hoped everyone
was staring at you as we went by the pews.
That hairnet has ruby beads, they’d say.
I declare, ruby beads and black hair.
I thanked the nurse for calling me
and sank deeper into the mattress. You didn’t
know you were still my mother. I was
your child, though, still clutching the
phone, listening to news about you.
