Her [INKITT]

O N E

Ella Fitzgerald croons on my father's record player. Rusty with age, the old school device didn't fail to play one of the greatest voices of all time. Naturally, I sing to her while lurching to my mother's bedroom with a small canister in my hands. As always, her murky green quilt cradled her round face and brushed against her furrowed eyebrows slightly.

Quietly, I retrieve her rag from her dresser and drop it into the warm water, allowing it to soak up as much heat as it could before strangling the rest of the water out. The instrumental climax of the song approaches and I gear up to belt out the lyrics. Ella was taking me to places, places that were intangible to the hand and non-permeable to the mind. She took me to places where my mother and father would twirl to her high notes while I gazed in admiration from my swing set.

I ended the last note with a theatrical bow, satisfied with my pipes, only to find a grim stare awaiting me.

Mama scowls bitterly, her nose twisted in disgust. "Now you know your ass can't sing, right?"

Heckling at her words, I lean down and press my lips against her temple.

"Good morning," I sing once again and this time she openly snarls at me, forcing my impromptu song to end. "Oh! Someone is very grumpy today, isn't she?"

"I wouldn't have to be so damn grumpy if you just accepted that you can't sing," Mama squirms to adjust herself but I knew that was impossible so I dash to her assistance.

I knew that she felt helpless and a burden but I didn't mind taking care of her at all. After huffing out in frustration, my mother watches me closely as I press the rag onto her knee. Making a rather quick discovery, my mother places her frail hand on my wrist and frowns at me.

"Now I know you didn't wake up early just to put some water for me on the stove."

During my study break Mama didn't question the new technique I was trying out on her body. I found out about her osteoporosis a few years back and only now did I research on how to alleviate the pain. Since her bones are soft and porous, doing simple tasks such as walking, feeding herself and even touching things causes her pain.

At the end of my examinations I huddled up a group of my friends who were majoring in Medicine and asked them about the condition, which didn't sound so bad after it was explained. All I had to do every morning was reduce the inflammation of the skin surrounding joints by applying a rag drenched in warm water and to give her a few exercises of the fingers and toes.

I had to wake up extra early to place a pot of water on the stove and hopefully having water which is warmer than usual will speed up the process.

"Well, the temperature determines the outcome," Mama attempts to protest but I halt her by applying more of the warm water, which seems to be calming her temporarily. After completing the routine, Mama pats the small spot next to her and as full-figured as she is, it takes me some time before being comfortable.

I do this daily, studying her facial features and engraving them into my mind in case the good Lord decides to take her away from me. Her skin is rich with melanin, radiant and dark, the exact same tone that coats my body, and her slanted dark eyes stare into the ceiling with wonder. Unlike her, my eyes were big and bold, just like my father's. Hair was not something I took for her but rather from my father and even though I'm transitioning into natural I still regret going under the relaxer. All I had now was big, dry hair that was full but had straight ends that were splitting.

"I hope you don't get your hair all over my pillows again," Mama warns but amusement laces her tone. "I'm serious."

"I'm wearing my scarf right now; I won't do that mistake again."