Breath

...her breathing, for example, the scratch of white shirt and tie, the sound a
hand makes on another hand. And in the darkness he will put his head
close to but not on her chest, the heart, he's certain now, unable to hold
them both.
Her Breathing For Example by Susan Stenson

My mother's breath journeys through a long,
transparent tube from the darkness of an oxygen cylinder
to the soot of her lungs. Her cord weaves between stairway spindles,
along baseboards. Beneath scatter rugs. She irons in my kitchen.
We talk of gardens, the three batches of peaches she put up
last week. Autumn reminds her of the farm, her father combining.
She noses into sleeves, around buttons, the sweet scent of fabric
drawn out by hot metal. Our conversation punctuated
with steam puffs and hisses and my mother's breathing,
for example, the scratch of white shirt and tie, the sound a


hangar makes as my father slid his blue-white shirts along
their closet bar, choosing which one to wear. The sound
they made together, against the grain, like a cat's tongue.
With each wheeze from her chest, I think how life cannot be held
in the palm of a hand. How the narrative changes as we stumble along.
She tells me she does not regret one day of her life.
I watch her strength, hidden and exposed, as she strokes the iron
down a long sleeve, understand, I am only a small part of her life.
I lay my hand on hers, knowing the comfort and peace one
hand makes on another hand. And how, in the darkness I put my head

next to hers after child nightmares and she held me through the night.
Her fingertips smooth cottons, linens, denims. She tells me
the secret to finishing tasks well is to do the difficult first; shirts,
blouses, rouching, then pillowcases, scarves. I listen into her,
glean each gesture and phrase as a farmer harvesting his late crop
on a rare October day. She has travelled such a distance to be here
in this moment: two World Wars, Korean War, two husbands, lover.
A son buried. This woman who carries her second world war,
1930's depression and divorce as a silent hunger close to
but not on her chest, the heart, I am certain now unable to hold

another war, another sadness. The machine purrs in its steadfastness.
On 9/11 she tells me to turn the TV off, just as she did when
John F. Kennedy was assassinated. Then she is silent. This woman
who has an opinion on every political and religious issue in life.
Let it be, she says. Dampening a cotton shirt, she turns the iron ‘high',
recalls all the white shirts she's scrubbed yellow collar and cuff
rings from. Inhale. Exhale. The rhythm steady within her
just as she holds her eighty-seven years straight in her spine.
Our gaze meets and she smiles. I feel my father here too. I hold
them both.