That Arab Spring
But her “alright” does not sound all right.
When I go to her bedside, she looks the same: nothing like the doctor’s “it won’t be long.” Tahrir Square is on the news again. There is no sound, no expert commentary, just images. There is a new sunkenness in her cheeks, a fresh bulge of bone along her shoulders. At the back of the room, my brother watches me from his computer.
Because Lynn is early, she sits in her car smoking a cigarette, talking on her cellphone. I watch her from the window until she sees me. By now, she knocks on the door once and then walks in like she lives here. She is chewing gum. Mom is happy to see her and says so. “I am happy to see you.” Lynn chews her gum faster, harder, and says, “Let’s get to work.” The washing and combing begin. This time, Lynn talks faster, longer; she talks about movie stars and divorces and affairs, and in between all of this she is a frenzy of lotion and folding and massaging. This is the first time she has been in a hurry, and I watch her for clues as to why. When she rubs too hard, Mom bares her teeth, and for the first time I notice that two of her important bottom teeth are missing. In forty-five minutes Lynn is done, and she puts all of her bottles and containers and bags into her special box. She waves good bye, steps out the door, and tosses her gum in the bushes. From the window, I watch her light a cigarette, place both hands on the steering wheel, and look straight ahead, as if she is stuck in traffic and has to wait.
Mom looks brighter, shinier, something like aglow, yet slightly bewildered, blinking, as if to say, “What was that?”
I ask, “Okay?”
She answers, “Isn’t she good?”
*
Every winter, I would clean the gutters. Sometimes it was a chore, sometimes not. Back then, the best part was getting onto the roof without using the ladder.
Before I go up, I lean over her bed, telling her, “I’m going up on the roof to clean the gutters.” She blinks at me. I tell her again, “I’m going to take the broom and clean the roof.” I make a sweeping motion to help her. Finally, she grins or grimaces, saying, “Alright. That’s a good idea.” I place a ladder up against the back porch and climb onto the roof with a broom. Like always, the gutters are choked with oak leaves, oak balls, and twigs. It takes me an hour to unchoke them. I could have done it faster and almost did, but then I wondered what the hurry was.
After the gutters are done, I decide to stay up there longer, looking out over witchy February treetops, the roll of browngray pastures two hillsides over, a sun that never seems to be up, just over. Finally, my sister comes to the bottom of the ladder, yelling up, “You okay?”
I answer “Yes,” picking up the broom to sweep nothing but rooftop, as if she might see and maybe say something, like “good work.” Before climbing down, I stop one last time to see the blueblack mountains nestled under a line of clouds. I squint to see if I can tell where the snow ends and the clouds begin.