After Sister’s funeral, neighbors bring tons of delicious food. My mother won't eat, but I’ll
clean up the kitchen and make her some chamomile tea. Dirty-dirty hair, her flesh is sour-
smelling, white like the sheets beneath her. Mother´s got her eyes fixed on the ceiling today.
She´ll lie there for hours in that ratty housecoat glaring at nothing. With the whiskey glass beside her, eyes empty, her mouth´s turned down like a pansy wilting in the sun.

    Still, I’ll open the windows for some cool air and play her favorite records. She likes songs by
the blind man with the w-o-n-d-e-r word in his name. He sings about believing in things that you
don't understand. It's got a sound; this groove that makes you want to shake a leg. 

    “You like that?" I´ll ask. And maybe there will be a part of her that won´t look through me,
something could stir inside. 

       My mother will listen and know, she’ll see-see-see I am here.