My brother took my mother to the countryside for August – “let her have a break from the apartment building.” On Thursday, my mother called from a neighbor’s phone: she had run out of blood pressure medication, and “Wojtek couldn’t be bothered because he was angry.” I dropped the medication off on Friday. My mother was waiting at the gate with a bag.

Mom was standing at the gate.

 

With a bag.

 

Not the little one she uses to carry documents to the clinic. The big, navy blue one,

 

Continued on next page: on wheels – the same one she’d ridden with in early August. She stood upright, in a summer blouse and skirt, her face painted as if she were going to church. She waited.

• Mom, what…

– Let’s go, Lucynka.

– But I came to bring medicine.

– You bring it, you bring it. But I’m going with you.

I saw that the bag was packed carefully—not hastily. The zipper was closed, the braided strap wrapped around the handle to prevent it from tangling. Mom had packed earlier. Maybe last night. Maybe even before she called me.

Before I could say anything, Wojtek came out of the house. He was wearing a sleeveless shirt and had a cup of coffee in his hand. He didn’t look angry. He looked tired.