My mother is dying. I cannot stop it. Have I asked her everything I want to know?
For example, why did she say I had to be home by an 11:30 pm curfew even though it meant I’d miss the last 1/2 hour of Gone With the Wind? (What happened? Did Scarlett and Rhett get back together again?)
And if you forget to put the chicken-in-the-pot in the refrigerator before you go to bed, is it still safe to eat in the morning?
First a little background: My mother was young when I was born. Only 21. Times were difficult then. She’d been very sick and I was a preemie and my Dad was away getting ready for the war.
(Does it matter if you put the cocoa powder or the warm milk in the cup first?)
(How many books of S & H green stamps did it take for our corn popper?)
Why didn’t we talk more?
What’s a bunion anyway? And why should I care if get one?
Did she do all the things she wanted to do? Is she afraid of death? Does she think my Dad is waiting for her in the beyond?
Soon both my mother and be father will be gone – along with all the knickknacks, the bags of cashews, and the Belefonte LP’s and the photos and magic tricks, and the dish drainer and candy dishes and the clocks, and the little kitchen table and the coat rack with hats and scarves -- all dispersed, like their ashes.
I stroke my mother’s hair. But, it is not my mother’s hair. My mother had black, black shiny black hair. But now this failing woman lying in the bed is strawberry blonde with large gray roots. She doesn’t even remember about Gone with the Wind.
“I never did that," she says, 'you’re making it up”. In truth, my mother, the one I remember from when I was a little girl, -- the look of her, the laugh, my mother with the mambo, cha cha hips -- started fading a long, long time ago -- and I have wondered where she’s gone for years.
Jed says, “It’s like trying to catch a piece of paper blowing away in the wind.”
That doesn’t make it hurt less.
