In her eyes, I don’t see me

There is a caregiver.
To care for my Mom.
A constant companion.
To comfort, to care.

I lack in this area.
Even sitting at her bedside.
It is less than an hour.
Yet, I stress my Mom out.

I am no comfort to her.
When she talks to me,
I don’t understand.
I see her frustration.

Now, she stares at me.
Does she recognise me?
I ask her questions.
She doesn’t answer me.

She still hallucinates.
There is fear in her eyes.
I hold and stroke her hands.
“It’s ok Mom. I am here.”

I dread going into her room.
When I do, it’s to sing to her.
I don’t know what to talk to her.
I want to run out of the room.

Relieved, when I leave the room.
Yet, I spend so little time in there.
Don’t think me a bad daughter.
In her eyes, I don’t see me.

By C.E. Pereira
(16-7-2019)

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