Thanksgiving

“That’s not that great,” she says pinched faced of the corn casserole everyone downstairs has raved about. “And I didn’t care for that too much either.” She points to the apples, sweet potatoes and orange sauce that took me 2 hours to prepare.
She’s by herself because the stairs might stress her lungs and leave her desperate for oxygen. I’ve seen it, her eyes widened, shallow panting, trying not to panic before she can relax and breathe deeply enough so her body knows it’s not suffocating. It hasn’t been this bad since I called the ambulance two years ago but that was right after heart surgery, before she knew what to expect.
I have a smile on my face as my husband’s family visits and eats in our basement. On the floor I have scrubbed and waxed. On the furniture I dusted and arranged just perfectly. I am beginning to organize the mess in the kitchen. My thought is to get some order here so I am not left with chaos later. Put the food away and rinse the serving bowls. Get the carcass cleaned up, gone. The guests will pass through the kitchen on their way out and I don’t want them to have to see the picked bones, the cutting board slippery with the juices and skin of the turkey they just ate, the gray bits of innards exposed when the meat was pulled off.
My mother has been as pleasant as she is capable of. Maybe because she is sick and afraid she will be alone if she doesn’t behave, if she’s not nice. Maybe the anger and bitterness has receded and doesn’t demand to show its self as in recent years. Maybe she is just too tired to snarl.
I am cleaning cleaning cleaning. Talk and laughter drift up to where I am. My back aches. My mother watches as I scrape plates into the garbage. She helps me with what she can. By the time my husband asks if there is anything he can do there is nothing much left to do.
The guests ascend. I smile, get their coats. Everything was real nice. Delicious. They smile.

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