My grandmother is in the hospital, apparently having lost her mind. Granted, this is after years of battling Parkinson’s disease and watching her daughter, my aunt, recently succumb to cancer, so it was quite inevitable. I am not shaken much, as she hasn’t spoken to me since I had Ashleigh (the whole child-out-of-wedlock JW goop). Nonetheless, I feel sadness, listening to my mother attempt a humorous spin on the news.

As I hear her mention how tired she is there is a slight rustle in the background. A magazine, catalog, papers of some sort, and I imagine my Mom’s callused fingers turning a fresh page, a hand sliding across the unseen text and images each time. She is coping, will make it through, but is worn, more so from trying to ignore than anything else.

I recall sitting across the table from Mom as we listened to an old radio from Uncle Charlie, either Paul Harvey, Prairie Home Companion, or Music with Mousekiwitz playing loudly. Though blind, Mom usually had a permanent half-smile upon her slightly tilted head and a look to her glass eyes that said she saw all she heard. As we sat there, myself wondering why we didn’t have a TV like others, Mom would grab a magazine from our regularly updated stash. Once I could no longer resist and asked her why she was looking at it upside down and she responded with a chuckle and a comment about touch. Each page she turned would be followed by a tap to the beat or a pause. Often, a moment would be worth laughter and she’d hesitate before returning to the papers, lift, drop, brush a hand gently against the page, turn.

There were times, more so as I grew older and as a teenager, I would find Mom alone at the kitchen table, the radio off, a catalog beneath her fingers, and the smiles were non-existent. Mostly I knew why the change, often I was full aware of my wrong doings, of others’ actions and I would sit in a wobbly chair, finding a magazine of my own. Silent save for the swish of the papers, Mom and I would turn our pages, hers upside-down and backwards, my own slowly, so as not to miss each item though already memorized.

On the nights sadness flooded Mom’s face, I would mouth “I’m sorry”, knowing all too well she could not see. Sometimes I would rest my head, unable to speak, never one to know what to say to others and wishing I could hug my mother without feeling as if in a play, a character.

I still flip through magazines, one of the simplest ways to calm my nerves, put a halt to a ripening panic attack. When I spoke with Mom I could feel my hands rooting, reaching for a book, a catalog, stack of bills, anything to sooth. Finding a pile of drawings from Ashleigh, I swallowed the bitter laughter as she attempted again to make light of the situation. I mouthed “I’m sorry”, though this time audible. Understanding the need to touch, to feel while feeling, after completing the conversation, I glided my fingertips across the waxy crayon drawings, a tilted smile upon my face.