Mother in the morning

When I walked into the kitchen this morning my mother looked from the back how she used to when she was working third shift at the hospital, pink sweater and white pants, white socks looking like her nursing shoes.

She used to come home in time to tell us goodbye in the mornings, and then she’d have a warm beer and go to bed for a few hours. The warm beer was because when she kept it in the refrigerator, someone else would drink it. They left the warm beer alone and she needed it to get to sleep after working all night.

Later, she found out that the amount she made extra for the family was just taken away again in additional taxes, so she quit. That and the paperwork that she had to do just killed any desire to work as a nurse.

I wonder what she might have done if there had been other career paths open to her when she finished high school. But back then it was nursing or teaching. I can’t see her as a teacher. I never thought about whether or not she was cut out to be a nurse.

I remember when I was sick and she would bring me weak tea or ginger ale and lay cool, damp washcloths on my forehead, or her hand against my hot cheeks. I didn’t think of her as a nurse, then, but as my mother.

When I was older and living alone and sick sometimes, I used to wish she was there again, to cool my cheeks and tuck in my covers and bring me tea and toast and medicine.

When I take care of my own children I think about how it felt to have her hand on my face as I put my own cool hands against my son’s forehead while he lays on the couch, under the comforter and with a bucket nearby, just in case.