My mama wasn't in bed.
I walked to the bathroom.
I stepped in something wet.
My mama had wet the floor.
She couldn't help it.
She's sick.

I walked into the bathroom.
She was on the toilet.
She had puked all over.

I took off her shirt,
took off her underwear,
and got a washcloth.
I cleaned my mama off.
I wiped her puke off of her naked body.

I went to get a new pair of underwear.
When I came back,
she had puked again.
I cleaned her off again,
gently, as if she were a baby.

I tried to get her off the toilet.
Mama couldn't stand.
You see, mama has MS.
Her legs wouldn't work.
Her eyes were glossy.
She had checked out.

"Stand up, mama.
Come on, mama.
Please, mama.
Stand up."

The weight of mama hurt my arms.
But I held her up,
even when her legs shook.

I put her new underwear on,
and took her still exposed body
and put it on my back.

Mama started screaming.
"Please stop!
Stop it!
No,
stop!"

I lovingly told mama
we were going to bed.
I dragged mama to bed,
and laid her down.

Mama wet herself again.
I had puke and urine on my hands.
I washed them,
and got new underwear for mama.

I placed a towel under her bare body,
took her underwear off,
and put the clean underwear on.
I got one of her big night shirts,
held her body up,
and put her in a shirt.

Mama is so sick.
But that doesn't mean I don't love her.
I do love my mama.
I promise I do.

I covered her up,
got a new wet washcloth,
and put it on her sweaty forehead.

I turned out the lights,
and went to the bathroom to clean up the mess.
I knelt in the puke and urine, cleaning up my mama's mess.
All the while, I was smiling.
Smiling.

My mama is alive.
I have a mama.
No matter how sick she is,
she's alive.

Some people can't say that,
and I can.
So I will love every minute
my mama is alive.

(The minutes are ticking away.)