The French Bath

She is not easily convinced
that a bath is a good idea,
afraid that she'll slip and fall.
I tell her that I'll hold on tightly,
get her in and out of the tub
and no broken bones.
Even more unsure, she walks with me to the bathroom.
I turn on the water, testing it with my wrist,
while she sits on a chair and watches,
wrapped in a towel, forcing a smile.
She's game to try just to please me,
but her eyes search the walls, the ceiling.

I say, "Honey, the water is ready.
I'll hold you under the arms
you just stand up by the tub.
"Slowly, she rises from the chair.
I slip one arm around her waist,
hold her hand and move her closer.

"Now, lift your leg, Mommy,
That's right, and in it goes.
Doesn't it feel good?
"the eyes wide, the look is skeptical,
but both legs are now in the water.
As I hold her, she gingerly
sits in the tub, surprised that it doesn't hurt.

At ninety-six, bathing had become a sometime thing
and then ended along with showers.
Her husband was too frail to help her and
she didn't want him to see her
so wrinkled and fearful so she lied about her baths.
She managed with a wash cloth and a little soap,
a "French Bath," she called it and no danger of falling.

I run a bit more hot water into the tub,
wash her back and shoulders.
"Here's the wash cloth, Mommy," I say,
"You wash under your arms and don't forget
" Down There." We both laugh.

II

Soon it's over and I begin to let the water out.
This is a crucial time and
her anxiety rises.
"Just let me put this towel
around your shoulders," I say.
"I'll wrap it all around you
and hold you like before."
Slowly, I lift her up,
so light in my arms,
one leg straightening, then the other.
She is standing, reaching out for the wall,
something to hold on to.

I am also afraid.
I hold her carefully as she raises one leg
and I guide it outside the tub.
Before we know it
she is standing on a mat beside the tub,
a large fresh towel and my arms around her.
We laugh.

"There, wasn't that lovely? Don't you feel better?"
"Hmmmmm," she says, "Thank you, dear,"
Still questioning the wisdom
of such a perilous endeavor.
"Well, I feel better," I say.
Although I know that after I leave,
It'll be back to the "French Bath."

Barbara Wolf (2007)

['The French Bath' above was written after the death in 2002 of Barbara's mother.
'The Waitress' was written in 2006, after a car trip to be with her dying step-father, John, "my mother's fifth - and best - husband". It exhibited at the Bainbridge Performing Arts 37 year poetry celebration in 2007.
- RocksWorks]

The Waitress

The meal was good and cheap,
deep fried but tasty.
The waitress, forty or so,
had scraggly bangs
she kept sweeping back from her forehead
and a tired sweetness about her.
I wondered how she could
rise out of her life,whatever it was,
to be so gentle as she
administered to all our hungers
and patient.
Is it fantastic school of waiting,
teaching the fine art of recognizing
that everybody hurts
and we all need butter and sour cream
on our baked potatoto smooth out the rough edges
and pickle relish on the side
to sweeten the day’s sorrows?

Most of the diners are gruff truckersw
ith huge bellies their grimy T-shirts
barely conceal.
One brings flowers,
golden day-lilies from his garden.
She puts them into a large mayonnaise jar
on the counter.
There they sit in this smoky eatery
like brass trumpets rising from a fog.

Outside the truck-stop
a breeze has kicked up
stirring the two trees
that grow among the big rigs.
Their leaves flash silver
in the late-day sun.
Birds with red under their wings
dive bomb for my crumbs.
Inside the restaurant window,
she smiles,
rearranging her flowers.

Barbara Wolf (2006)