Mom, eighty-six, wears me down.
A dutiful daughter, I live in one mode: worn out. I tire of toweling up Mom’s warm puddles, stinking like a drowned mouse.
In my front room, Mom screams. In the downstairs bathroom, she trills. She cries out from morning till night.
Mom delights in stroking my eggshell ego: “Best daughter of all time.”
Today I drove Mom to see her gerontologist. He said, “Let her scream, but keep your windows locked.”
Doc doesn’t understand. For months all my windows have been shut tight.
What I want to know is, when do I get to scream?