Is this a prose poem sequence? Or does it need to be something else?
Mother teased the shortness of breath. How many rests did it take for her to get ready? Leaning hard on her elbows in the bathroom, struggling to inhale past the destruction of her lungs? Greenery was color of the year in 2017, a verdant yellow-green she wore in a stone around her neck, her granddaughter, too, in a thrifted sweater, squeezed next to her at the kitchen counter. Their dark heads together, they snarked at the expense of father, grandfather, husband. How hyper he got when they used to travel. Mother said words like "hyper." Father took it on the chin, drinking a can of Bud, attending mother and her portable oxygen, set on high.
Mother and granddaughter mocked other things besides the slapstick of far-away destinations—sequins, wide-legged trousers, ottoman poufs. They had opinions. I eavesdropped while I cooked the Thanksgiving feast, basting the turkey, mashing the potatoes. The heat and steam of my small kitchen conducted memory. What I chose to remember. What I chose to forget. Mother closed her eyes when she wheezed. I fixed her a whisky and seven-up, which she only sipped and let melt to watery soda by the time I called everyone to the dining table. A napkin stuck to the bottom of her glass with condensation. She didn't like wetness in her palm.
Mother ate everything. Turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato brulee, sausage dressing, pear salad. Her son-in-law joked, "Leave some for the rest of us." She fixed him with a stern eye and commandeered the homemade cranberry sauce, which only she and I appreciated. My husband and nephews pined for canned cranberry, jiggling with aluminium ripples. I sat next to her while she finished her pumpkin pie, scrapping the plate, whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. She nodded, full of the day. I leaned into her. "How are you feeling?" She closed her eyes. Wheezing episodes were called exacerbations. I could hear the wreckage of her airways. A sickly green entered her eyes.
"I can't breathe," she husked. Father stood, bumping the table, checking to see if the oxygen tube was kinked. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home right now. She passed out in the back hallway, swooning on the boot bench. The oxygen tube dislodged. Briefly, she wasn't fighting for air. Father drove. My brother held the oxygen tube in her nose. She revived when they hooked her up to the house oxygen. Should they have taken her to the hospital? Father helped her change into her nightgown. She said she felt fine. She said they should watch football. Later, when my brother returned to his family, she asked father to lay in bed with her.
"Mom, mom," my daughter insisted me out of sleep. I was confused by the dark. I was confused by my daughter silhouetted in the doorway. "Grandma died." She pulled at the green sweater she'd worn to bed. A tumbling of thoughts as I stared at her in a stupor. "We need to go to your dad's," said my husband. "Get ready." We arrived with the ambulance. My brother was already there. The paramedics were sliding out a gurney. Father wrung his hands, an expression I'd never understood before. I looked past the gruesomeness of mother's gaping mouth. I imagined she was sleeping. I imagined she'd incidentally let flop the mouthpiece of her oxygen tube.
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Annette’s suggestions: my comments in [ bold italics ]
What a deep and powerful essay. Excellent piece or writing, Tori
I think this would work well as a haibun, where you can insert several haiku to emphasize each part of the story. Are there parallels you can make in short stanzas at the breaks? I suggested paragraph breaks because I think the reader needs to catch their breath—like your mother can’t—in each section. See below
for the title —I don’t think you don’t need to give away the dying, it’s the deeply sad turn at the end. How about “An Exacerbation?”
Mother teased the shortness of breath. How many rests did it take for her to get ready? Leaning hard on her elbows in the bathroom, struggling to inhale past the destruction of her lungs? [should this be a period instead of a question? ]
[start a new paragraph]
Greenery was [C]olor of the [Y]ear in 2017, a verdant yellow-green she wore in a stone around her neck, her granddaughter, too, in a thrifted sweater, squeezed next to her at the kitchen counter.
[new paragraph—new thought]
Their dark heads together, they snarked at the expense of father, grandfather, husband. How hyper he got when they used to travel. [who used to travel—your parents or gma and Bella?]Mother said words like "hyper." Father took it on the chin, drinking a can of Bud, attending [to] mother and her portable oxygen, set on high. [good image, high.
Mother and granddaughter mocked other things besides the slapstick of far-away destinations [this seems out of place with the 70s attire words—clarify perhaps? or just say fashions of the 70s — travels of your parents or gma and Bella? or, do you need it? ]—sequins, wide-legged trousers, ottoman poufs. They had opinions. I eavesdropped while I cooked the Thanksgiving feast, basting the turkey, mashing the potatoes. The heat and steam of my small kitchen conducted memory. What I chose to remember. What I chose to forget. [good summary—normal family time, yet something is brewing here]
[insert haiku here—holiday-normal]
[new paragraph]
Mother closed her eyes when she wheezed. I fixed her a whisky and seven-up, which she only sipped and let melt to watery soda by the time I called everyone to the dining table. A napkin stuck to the bottom of her glass with condensation. She didn't like wetness in her palm.
Mother ate everything. Turkey, mashed potatoes, sweet potato brulee, sausage dressing, pear salad. Her son-in-law joked, "Leave some for the rest of us." She fixed him with a stern eye and commandeered the homemade cranberry sauce, which only she and I appreciated. My husband and nephews pined for canned cranberry, jiggling with aluminium [aluminum ]ripples. [love this detail!] I sat next to her while she finished her pumpkin pie, scrapping [did you mean scraping?] the plate, whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. She nodded, full of the day. I leaned into her. "How are you feeling?" She closed her eyes. Wheezing episodes were called exacerbations. I could hear the wreckage of her airways [good line!]. A sickly green entered her eyes. [I like how you come back to the color green again, only this time it’s serious]
"I can't breathe," she husked [good verb]. Father stood, bumping the table, checking to see if the oxygen tube was kinked. She wanted to go home. She wanted to go home right now.
[new paragraph—adds drama]
She passed out in the back hallway, swooning on the boot bench. The oxygen tube dislodged. Briefly, she wasn't fighting for air. Father drove. My brother held the oxygen tube in her nose. She revived [at home] when they hooked her up to the house oxygen.
[new paragraph—we the reader—need to “catch our breath” as we read; it’s a heavy story ]
[insert another haiku here]
Should they have taken her to the hospital? Father helped her change into her nightgown. She said she felt fine. She said they should watch football. Later, when my brother returned to his family, she asked father to lay in bed with her.
"Mom, Mom," my daughter insisted me out of sleep. I was confused by the dark. I was confused by my daughter silhouetted in the doorway. "Grandma died." She pulled at the green sweater she'd worn to bed. A tumbling of thoughts as I stared at her in a stupor. "We need to go to your dad's," said my husband. "Get ready." We arrived with the ambulance. My brother was already there. The paramedics were sliding out a gurney. Father wrung his hands, an expression I'd never understood before. I looked past the gruesomeness of mother's gaping mouth.
[can you turn these last lines into a final modified haiku?] or even compare to something nature] my sample haiku needs tweaking but you get the idea. It does NOT have to be 5-7-5.
I imagined she was sleeping.
Imagined she'd let flop the mouthpiece
of her oxygen tube.
[— Good job, Tori, this had to be hard to write, yet I hope it was healing too.
ALG]