Patchwork Child


"You see, I take the parts that I like and stitch them back together, to make a creature that will do what I say or love me back."

I watch as mom sews the small doll together. The arms and legs are different colors, the dress seems to be a patchwork of other dresses. The face is unsettling, made up of two other faces. She seems content and joyous with herself. The nurses say she spends all her free time tearing apart stuffed toys and putting them back together, almost like she's playing doctor.

"What are you making now?"

"I'm making a child that will love me unconditionally. A child that wouldn't just jam me in a nursing home, and visit once a week."

My mother is losing her mind, sometimes it slips and she becomes childlike, other times, she's sharp as ever and fully aware of her condition. Most days are like now, where she's somewhere in between. Sewing dolls as she had in her childhood, but filled with cutting words that only an adult could use. It isn't as if I wanted to put her in a nursing home, I simply couldn't care for her on my own anymore. I was missing too much work, and soon I wouldn't have been able to afford my house if she was entirely dependent on me. This was just the better option, a home nurse would have bankrupted me even faster. 

"Love you mom, I'll see you later."

"Remember to wear a jacket next time, it's getting cold out."
 

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