Sketching

I put down the book I just finished
And I turn to see my mother all wrapped up
And asleep in her reading chair.

I stand up quietly
Put my book down quietly
And quietly go to get my paper and pencil.
But quickly.

The artist in me wills her to stay perfectly still
So I can sketch her.
And she does.
So I do.
But quietly.
With my pencil forming the same shapes it always does.
All 26.

Her hair is still styled
From the night before
But her makeup is long gone,
Washed away.
It lets me see her face
As it is.
There aren't many wrinkles;
You'd think there'd be more.
Only around her mouth.
Laugh lines, I think.
I hope.

Her blanket
rises
      and
            falls
with each breath
and spills off onto the floor.
It covers her, so big.
She seems so small,
Like if I were to carry her,
I could just scoop her up in my arms
And walk away.

She'd be happy to hear that, I think,
Maybe hope.
She does all this slimming and trimming,
Using only words from the back of the box.
The ones no one really wants to understand.
Proteins, Carbohydrates, Calories
I'm not saying I don't understand them,
I'm saying I wish I didn't.
Because this slimming and trimming can take over,
And soon it's not enough.
Nothing's enough.
Too much of you is here,
Until you disappear.

Disappearances that don't get reported.
We only take about missing bodies.
You people is here, but your person isn't.

And this small reminds me off the hospital small,
A small no one wants to be.
Or see.

And I have to wonder if I'll ever not worry about her,
And even though the blanket is
rising
        and
            falling
I feel this need
To make sure she will wake up.
I don't want her to disappear.
I need my mom here.

I guess the worry never really goes away.

I feel like I need to stop drawing my mom
because I ended up drawing myself instead.
Well,
A part of me.
The daughter part of me.
Half the daughter part of me.

I wonder how many different parts of me there are.
I wonder how different they all are.
That's a funny question, isn't it?
How different am I from myself?

I suppose that is enough sketching for now.
My mom just woke up;
I think it's a sign.
I may not have a picture,
But I do have a sketch.
After all,
Words are We,
And We are Words