By Su Yon Pak

She made her rounds today.

      My mother.

She cares for them as she did for many years, a resident alien

     nursing in a nursing home

     now, she is the resident,

          alien.

Stealthily, dementia began to visit her.

She started to forget things,

     little by little,

     where she put things,

          ingredients in our favorite food,

               where she was.

      Like a thief it visited her…

           stealing mementos with each visit.

Then, dementia set up house there, rearranging furniture.

And she forgot things boldly,

     big chunks at a time,

     40 years of immigrant life…

          husband of over 50 years…

               several decades of shared stories.

     Her house proudly swept of memories.

Whose house is this?

     Say, tell me, why does its lock fit my key?*

But she remembers that I am her daughter…

     no, her sister?

Well, she remembers that I am the one

     yes, THAT one.

Zakar! Remember!

The Bible commands;

     Remember, that you were slaves in Egypt

          the Lord your God redeemed you

               from there;

     Remember the days of old, consider

           the years long past;

           ask your mother,

                she will inform you;

           your elders,

                they will tell you.

     Remember, I have bore you on eagle’s wings

          and brought you to myself.

Remembering—

     the sticky “thingness” of love

Sticky web, catching its prey so love can feed and grow

     even hard memories,

          especially those hard memories.

To love without memories,

     to love the morphing self,

     like chasing after a chicken in a yard.

Shared memories, the hyphen between mother—daughter,

     Broken…

     Can daughter exist when mother does not?

     Dangling as a participle searching for the subject to modify.

     Dangling…

And I love her.

I love her defying the grammar of love,

     contemplating radical love.

Contemplating radical love, I enter her world

     a world of ghosts, war and ancestors that terrifies me.

     With love’s rope tied around my waist, I enter her holy of holies.

     The other end of the rope, tethered firmly to this world.

Contemplating radical love, I risk loving

       her again,

            knowing that I cease to exist, when I leave her room.

Contemplating radical love, I tend daily to my altar because—

     I too, forget

     that this is how God loves me

          radically

     chasing after me, like a chicken in a yard.

I ask my mother

     about the rounds she made today.

She tells me how busy she is.

I urge her to take a break,

      before getting back to work.

We enjoy coffee and donuts,

      delighting in each other’s bitter-sweet presence.

Presently.

*from Toni Morrison, Home