It's the Little Things

My mom wants me to take her to Target when this is all over. 

Tar-jhay, she said, remembering how I used to pronounce it, when she could hear. 

She read my assurance on her "caption phone" as seriously as she might have heard a promise a half century ago that I would clean my room. Or do my homework. I mean it, she said. Promise me we'll go. 

I promised. And I meant it. I had told her she would hate it, and she would have, before this. Even the new one on the tony Upper East Side. Before, before this, I might have had to take her into a Walmart first, so the Target would look good. Even if it doesn't carry Chanel. 

She's 89 now, still going strong after breaking her collar bone, some ribs, her pelvis, and her hip, all within the last decade. Throw in a little spinal collapse for good measure. She is not unfamiliar with confinement, certainly not unfamiliar with fear. The fear of never walking again, of losing her independence. But she fought once, and walked, and she fought a second time, and still walks. This is different, though. Being afraid to touch anything, go near anybody, breathe communal air. She has a will of steel, but that only works for things you can understand.  

A few weeks ago, I despaired when I realized by toes weren't as close as I had remembered, even after years of yoga. It had been a long time since I had to cut my own toenails. My mother's toes are woefully out of reach, even with her shortened spine. How did that not occur to me. I've sent her some long-handled clippers; I hope they arrive before things get out of hand. 

I had to watch my good friend's father's funeral on my laptop, couldn't give her a hug. Her mother, after more than 60 years of marriage, couldn't go. Couldn't say goodbye. My friend goes to see her, though a window. 

Another friend wonders when she will hold her new grandson. I marveled at the pictures, wanted so much for her to be able to touch his toes. 

My own children, at least two of them, are out of reach except for Zoom. It helps, but it's not the same. 

My apartment seems smaller, as my world shrinks. I think it's Sunday, but I'm not absolutely sure. There is tape on the elevator floors, marking out properly distanced squares in the corners. Like a hopscotch board, exploded.

I sent my mother pears, because her favorite fruit store finally shut its doors, at least for now. Even the beautiful fruit gave her pause. But mostly, she wished she could share them with one of us. She wonders, aloud, when -- or whether -- she will be able to spend time with her children, her grandchildren. 

She wants to go to Target. Tar-jhay. Even if they don't carry Chanel.