“Jan?” the
familiar, tentative voice asks.
I turn,
speaking gently: “What do you need,
Mom?” And then I wake up.
I’m supposed
to miss her more. Instead, I wake each
day to a palpable relief. Only occasionally
do lonely moments catch up with me in the serenity of my newly arranged space.
Weeks slip
by in this new life. Mornings, I wake up
with coffee and the day’s Internet fix.
Sometimes I write, and always I practice one or both flutes. On the days my brother John commutes into
Seattle, I walk down a short stretch of driveway to the perimeter fencing and slide open the gate between cougar cages. Then, over in my brother’s basement, I set
the stainless steel feeding dishes to soak and start a load of laundry. Those tasks will be picked up again
mid-afternoon.
After my
sacrosanct daily nap, afternoons fill up with errands or writing, interspersed
with household tasks and keeping my cat company. Sometimes I have a friend over—it’s a real
delight to show off my spacious living/office/kitchen area and the view of the
woods from the back windows.
I cook for
two instead of three now, though the amounts are the same since Mom’s tiny
stomach only allowed her the smallest of portions. John arrives promptly at six, and we sit down
to a simply, healthy meal. He’s out the
door to feed his big cats by 6:15.
If I am not
at flute choir or chancel choir, I am home, watching the last bit of the news
and spending the rest of the evening reading or writing or transcribing the
almost-century-old letters exchanged between my grandparents during their
unofficial, lengthy engagement.
Sometimes I’m on the phone with my son.
(Phone conversations with my daughter come earlier in the day.) Always the evening slips by quickly. I end the day with Bible and cat in lap.
It is a very
simple, very quiet life interspersed with church activities, music, and
occasional beach walks. It is when I sit
down at the piano to play a few elementary notes that the poignant moments
arrive and I miss Mom—who she is now in mid-stage dementia and who she used to
be when she was fully herself.
I try not to
picture her walking around the commons area of her new living space and
wondering when her son and daughter will ever visit. (Each time we do is a first time for her.) Tuesday, April 24 will be her 85th
birthday. I’ll be there at Home Place
for lunch and spend an hour in her eternal present, recycling simple
conversation every few minutes. Once I
leave, she will not know I’ve been there, but at least I will.
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