Archive
05/08/11 - (2)
My Mother
I promised my mom I'd pick her up at 12:15, But I arrive a half-hour early, Only to find that she's dressed and waiting, in the kitchen. Her eyes embrace the vase of roses I've brought her. She seems so small, so frail, yet so pretty, so at peace.
At the restaurant, she requests that I order for her. She picks at her chopped salad, touches none of her salmon, Asks if I'd care to finish her meal. The water and coffee glasses are heavy, for her; She doesn't resist my holding them, as her dry lips sip.
For the hour that we eat, sitting across from each other, We converse in a lighthearted dialogue. "I'm so glad you're my mother, Mom, not someone else's, Because if you were, I wouldn't be me." "And if you weren't you," she says, "whose mother would I be?"
We laugh. I'm quite impressed by the depth of her wit; After all, she'll be ninety-six, this July. Her smile makes me realize how young I am, at seventy. "Do you have time to stop and let me buy flowers?" She wants to take some home, for her caregiver.
Next, we drive to the lush, spring-greening cemetery Where her husband, my dad, lies eight years buried. "Mom, would you put this lucky penny on Dad's gravestone? I just picked it up, in the driveway. And I'll set this pebble on top of the marble, beside it."
With tears I've rarely seen from her, over my lifetime, This independent, stoical woman speaks: "Dear Saul, I love, loved, and always will love you. I'm here today, on Mother's Day, To tell you I miss you and that I'll be beside you, soon."
Looking at the momentary sadness shadowing her face, I can't hold back my own tears. As we drive away from this timeless place, I sigh, Realizing how happy I am, that my mother is still in my life, Not just another abiding memory.
05/08/11 - (2)
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