Andrea Penner
Two café tables away sat an impeccably dressed older gentleman. He wore a gray suit, light shirt and tie, and a soft burnt orange knit beret. His head was bent forward into his left hand, so I could not see his face. With his right hand, he ate his meal one small, slow bite at a time. His posture suggested extreme sadness or overwhelm, but that was probably too much projection on my part, heaping too much world-weariness onto his thin shoulders.
As he paused to shift his left hand, his head fell forward onto his chest. He curled his fingers into a fist and used it to prop up his cheek for support, so he could continue eating at a slightly different angle. I recognized the symptom—my mother, too, lost control of her neck muscles in the years before she died of a neurodegenerative disease. He reminded me of her.
When Mom was still able to sit upright and could still speak, she sometimes asked whoever was nearby to place a pillow between her shoulder and left ear, particularly when she was trying to eat or drink what was offered. Her hands had already become rigid, frozen, all except The Finger.
Her right index finger remained in her control long after her torso, limbs, neck, and voice ceased cooperating. She used the finger to great effect. At the mall, dressed up for a favorite outing, she pointed the finger in the desired direction—that way to Macy’s perfume counter, this way to Dillard’s housewares department—her wheelchair assistant was obliged to steer her accordingly. At the food court, the finger pointed to the ice cream counter, a dish, and French Vanilla. The finger also knew the way to See’s Candies for the perfect chocolate.
The man in the orange beret used both hands to fold his napkin and place it on top of his plate, but as he did so, his head fell forward. Chin on his chest, he held the arms of the chair, stood up, fumbled in his suit pockets for a handkerchief, and wiped his nose. After he left, I noticed a blue card on the floor under his chair, probably fallen from his pocket. On one side was printed the name of a house of worship; on the other side, the Serenity Prayer: serenity to accept what can’t be changed; courage to change what can be; and the wisdom to know the difference. My mother, too, held onto that prayer.
There’s no moral here, no deep hidden meaning in these remembrances. I think these two people came to mind because part of me relates to their helplessness in these distressing times. And part of me delights in the humor of my mother’s index finger and how much power she had to direct the world under the right circumstances. May we do the same.
Andrea Penner lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where she serves up poetry, creative non-fiction, and memoir in her Substack newsletter, In Our Own Ink. Her work also appears in literary magazines, including Sky Island Journal (poetry) and Feminism and Religion (prose).