I.

Photo 1

My mother perches with spoon to my infant mouth that forms an expectant o.

Photo 2

I am two, twisted in my mother’s lap to hold a translucent grape to her lips. Her eyes close and she smiles into the sun. I’m wearing a blue bikini I call my zucchini. I interchange superman and supermarket; being and bean.

“I’m a human bean,” I announce.

 

II.

“Was I always tall?” my mother asks one day. Just shy of seventy, her breast cancer has spread. I bring her bags of eggplant parmesan, garlic artichoke hearts, fresh tomato with basil, wedding soup.

At the kitchen table, she stares straight ahead. I fix her a plate, place it in front of her.

“Which one is artichoke?” She taps the top of a tomato. “This one?”

“No, this one,” I say, guide her hand.

 

III.

One week before she dies, I stand at my parents’ bedroom door with freshly-boiled eggs quivering on a plate.

Her swollen legs dangle over the side of the bed. She shakes her head.

“No? Do you want a peach?”

She nods. In the kitchen, I slice a peach into small, pulpy pieces, return to my mother, her eyes closed.

“Mom,” she says to me.

The plate hangs in my hand. “No. You’re my mom,” I say.

“Oh.”

“You’re my mom and I’m your daughter.” I hold up a speared peach slice. Her mouth opens.

“Mmmmm,” she says, shoulders hunched, mashing the fruit on her tongue. Somehow, I believe the peach will transform her into who she once was.

 

Elizabeth Koster’s work has appeared in Fourth Genre, River Teeth, Split Lip, Sweet, Hobart, Five Minutes, and The New York Times “Modern Love” column. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from Columbia University and teaches writing in New York City.