Cloud Moving Hands

My Mother Stares at the Picture

13 My mother stares at the picture of Jesus on the wall. She is waiting for him to take her. She wonders why he is taking his sweet old time. It’s been a blank wall she’s stared at, for too long, blank wall of her mind. The blankness scared us. We taped pictures to the wall. Pictures to remind her of who she was. Pictures to remind ourselves of who we were together. She stared at them all. Thinking they disturbed her, we tore the pictures down, redeemed them for Jesus, an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven headshot. With his collarless robe and long flowing hair, he could pass for a rock star, haloed in adoration. All day she stares at the picture. No one she ever knew looked like that, although her daughters brought home boyfriends who bore shaggy resemblances. Blue glassy eyes, gypsy muslin shirts, � My Mother Stares at the Picture 14 ferny facial hair. Boyfriends none of us particularly want to remember. My mother remembers none of us these days, but she will know Jesus when he comes knocking, rocking to take her in his old sweet time. ...