The Cage

The phone call from Florida comes just before spring break
--a second break, same hip.
When I arrive at the rehab facility,
Grandma sits in a wheelchair at the nurse's station, crying
as she sorts slips of paper.
"I've gotten myself into such a mess,"
she wails.
"I did the breaking,"
My aunt lays a hand on her arm,
bends down close.
"Mom, what is it you think you've done?"
She shrugs and waves a hand over the paper,
"It's all wrong. I've got to make it right."
We pat her, we hug her, murmur until she stops snuffling,
stops shuffling paper.
She tries to get up, so we have to remind her.
More tears. More patting, more murmuring.
We wheel her to an activity room,
park her by the bird hutch.
Parakeets and finches flit about, peeping and chirping.
One of the zebra striped finches
batters itself against the front of the hutch,
over and over.
Behind us, a glass door looks out to the courtyard.
Mom and Aunt Rose leave to deal with paperwork.
Grandma watches the birds.
I look around the room.
I make an attempt, remarking that her sweatshirt
(the one I bought her)
is as blue as the sky outside.
I get a smile.
Other residents sit in wheelchairs, drooping against the walls.
There's a coffee table, in the center of the room, its magazines untouched.
Grandma begins to sing,
"Que Sera, Sera, whatever will be, will be
the future's not ours to see, Que Sera, Sera."