Wellness Check

And she’s whirling again, our mother, hair plastered like so much seaweed against her face. No help in sight. I nudge the little boat—a makeshift coracle—towards her currents and offer up a paddle, but she spits, Bitches! Sirens!

My sister punches numbers into her phone. She shouts above the churning: Has she been taking the little blue ones? The ones that make her groggy? and I want to reply Whaddya think? but I know she’s trying, so instead, I paddle to the currents’ edge. Wait for the wail of reinforcements. Have another go: Grab hold, Mum, hang on.

 

Photo Credit: NASA Goddard Space Flight Center