Mother, out of the nursing home for Thanksgiving,skeletally osteo-arthritic at ninety-two, smacksher thin lips at the first taste of white wine likePriscilla, Queen of the Wine Harvest; Mother,who could rival any buxom woman just a fewyears ago, reclines concave now in our gray leatherliving room, picks a tapenade –stuffed tomato withher claw-like hands from a plate on her lap, nibblesthe crabmeat from a crouton and smiles encouraginglyas we refill her wine glass, the pale Riesling reflectingon the ceiling and walls like transparent coins ofbackyard honesty.
Once at the table, the ruby red sparkles and Motherfirmly grips her crystal stem like a baby with a newrattle despite her twisted fingers, and proclaims herusual toast in her strong, raspy voice before sippinglustily. Later, we move back to the living room to playcharades, a game you’d think her deafness wouldfacilitate-signing “the” with her hands, demonstratingsyllables on her forearm, but instead, she lifts the heavywine bottle and pours herself more zinfandel.
Dessert served in the dining room again, the chandelierblazing above the mahogany table, sauterne with the Frenchapple pie, muscat with the chocolate cake, Mother asksfor more like Oliver, but unlike his abrupt refusal, we kindlysay, “no,” not wanting her to fall when she returns to thenursing home after her last glass of wine on this family day.
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Illustration: Vishnu Prasad © All Rights Reserved