Photo by Praigeaux
I talked to my mother the other day on the phone. She was in a tizzy getting ready for visits from my sister and my brother, and worrying about what to fix for dinner, for dessert, and making sure there were clean sheets on the guest bed.
My dad was out of town for the afternoon, and I noticed, not for the first time, that she seemed to have her wits more about her than during the times when Dad is in the background, correcting her, inserting his two cents’ worth, or interrupting her to ask where the keys to the car are hidden.
She did, however, again express surprise to learn for the umpteenth time that Rabbit is in kindergarten. She also referred to her as “the little one” since she hasn’t said her name aloud without reminder of what that name is in over a year.
It was not a bad conversation, as similar ones have been. She talked about her Aunt Rosie, who passed away several months ago, and the fact that Rosie’s son Victor, who had Down Syndrome, died last week at the age of 58. “Oh,” my mom said, “I was so upset at first, but you know, maybe he missed Rosie. They just wanted to be together.”
I thought about how time creeps up and reclaims what was never ours. There is a red garage next to my parents’ house, and my niece Paige this summer visited my parents’ house for the first time. She took dozens of absolutely breathtaking photos, vignettes of the rustic reclamation of time over the place I used to call home. Ivy covering buildings, grass growing over sidewalks, sidewalks crumbling into dust. Without the artist’s eye, these things were distressing, but she turned them into things of beauty.
I have to see the beauty in what happens with my mother. I can choose to look at it as a loss, or I can look at it as an opportunity to capture the vignettes with a loving lens. I can be there to help my mother through these upcoming years, or I can stay away and try to remember her as she was.
I think I need to be present. I need to capture and remember her in every phase of her life, not just focus on the picture-perfect times. Because sometimes the effects of time render things more noteworthy, more poignant, and a more beautiful picture.
Stumble It!
Amazingly beautiful post, Mary. A needed reminder for all of us … to be present.
Your niece has such an amazing gift for photography. And you are able to recapture the beauty of the picture in your words. As always, thank you for sharing!
This post did something to my senses that I can’t manage to put into words.
Interesting how we all want things to stay the same and yet God forces us to move along on that road called ‘life.’ The scenery changes with each passing day. Treasure it. Unless it’s your kiddo going off for his first driving lesson. THEN you can whine. : )
Ow, this post touches me at an important time. My family is trying to deal with a crisis surrounding my mom.
One of the sad things about my mom’s situation is that she is isolated, having chosen to remain in a distant small town, alone, after Dad died. The friends they had have fallen away – due to age and illness – and she is completely alone.
We kids visited her when we could, but her home was never our home, and it is difficult to travel to.
She had always stubbornly maintained her independence, refusing to move, refusing to travel. Now she has met her crisis, and she can’t be left alone anymore.
My family is large and we pull together. We are moving her to a facility near two of my siblings’ homes. We are taking turns staying with her 24 hours until the move is completed. Thank goodness we can do this.
But the thing that strikes me most is the lost opportunities, the times that never were, that we could have been with her and she with us, that never were.
I am glad that now I can be there to help her bathe and dress, and take her walker out of the car for her, and listen as she expresses how she feels as her body fails her.
But I mourn the times that I could have picked her up and brought her home for dinner; taken her to the symphony; gone shopping with her; taken her out to tea. That her granddaughters could have dropped by after school. That her grandson could have come by and fixed that leaky faucet. That her son-in-law could have helped her install that printer.
it was her choice to isolate herself – and I have always respected her decisions.
But I want to remember not to make a decision like that when I am in her situation someday. Don’t turn away. Reach out. Share.
Mary, this is a striking post, so achingly beautiful that I tuned everything else around me out and focused simply on your words on the page. I can take much of my own experiences with my ailing mother and compare them to these beautiful thoughts.
Thank you.
damn, you made me cry…just read wheat from the chaff, the mom post. my mother just managed to write the names of all eleven, in order, after a stroke on october 10th (my birthday).
I wish you could have the memories of Mom that I have; young, beautiful, energetic and continually pregnant! My warmest memory of her was when I was in Kindergarten, and parents ( well, just mothers; back in the day moms stayed home and dads did what they did) came for our Christmas party. Mom was the most beautiful woman in the room, wearing a black coat, makeup, and her hair styled a la 1961. Everyone else’s mom looked, well, used up and plain. I still don’t know who watched the babies while she sat on a little chair in our kindergarten classroom while we handed out handmade Christmas ornaments. All I know is that she was there, and outshone all the others.
Your last few paragraphs are like a prayer.
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