Page 30 - Contrast1993Fall

Mother's Words

Keith Remo

"Look at me!" my mother yelled. "Look at me!"
After all these years, those are the three words that I can still hear
my mom saying. I was a young boy of seven when I first heard this
command uttered to me. I was young, dispirited, and confused. I can
only remember that whenever I heard these words, my eyes over-
flowed with tears, but despite my tear-blurred vision, I managed to
see my mother gasping for breath and her once petal-delicate skin
deteriorating into a kwashiorkor-like quality.
I knew my mother was ill. The stench of sickness pervaded the
atmosphere with its well-known ingredients: week-old vomit, blood,
urine, and to top it all off, traces of potpourri air freshener. The
apartment, no bigger than a humble-sized bedroom, even looked
like a sick person's house. Aged yellow newspapers were scattered
over the room; clothes lined the floor; my G.L Joe action figures lay
everywhere; drawers brimmed over with variously colored pills;
roaches and tiny black ants marched side-by-side as if storing provi-
sions. I kept in mind that I was the man of the house; so, I paid more
attention to my indisposed mother than I paid to myself.
I was just as unkept as my house. I don't think I even changed my
clothes for weeks. My face was unwashed, the sleep on my eyes,
unremoved and crusty. My saving grace was the new school nurse,
Florence (she allowed only me to call her that), who replaced the
elderly retired Mrs. Madison. Florence was in her thirties, I believe,
and had lily-white skin and the most striking auburn hair, which she
wore in a sort of braided crown. She always wore a smile and
possessed the friendliest of countenances. When Florence first set
eyes on me, I saw her face fill with compassipn. She was the first
person on earth who expressed a genuine concern for my well-being.
I began to trust her, and pretty soon, I found myself telling her what
was troubling me. "My ... my mother is sick. I don't know what's
wrong. She looks real skinny, but don't feel much like eating."
From then on, Florence made weekly visits to my apartment to
check up on mom. My mother was always irritable, angry even,
muttering that she didn't need "no white woman's help." N everthe-
less, I was appreciative of my nurse's assistance, and I even nick-

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