She smeared my
chest and back
with greased menthol
from a blue jar
when toddler croup
barked. Swelled
bronchial tubes
annually cut off
my air supply all
the years during
and after new
breasts had to be
considered and
maneuvered
around. Ripped
squares of towel
taken off a warm
oven rack were
hurriedly placed
on my shy,
worried skin. Bless
the pungent vapors
saving my bruised
ribs a racking--
relief spelled out
for a short breather-
a merciful while.
Old breasts need more
creative ambulation
but my own hands -
missing hers - know
what needs done.
Every year early in November, like clockwork, I get bronchitis. I'm 54 and still want mom to minister to me. It never goes away. I love your hands, mom. And just so you know, I can't manage the back.
