Today is my mother's ninetieth birthday. Except that I think there is a reset button when you pass from this world to the next one in which case she will be ten in November.
All of this means that I haven't talked with her in awhile. Correction. She has not spoken to me. I muse to her a lot.
For the
first sixteen years she and I lived under one roof, and again for a year in college. After that there was a long stretch when I was queen of my own domain, even if it was only a dorm room. Then as an encore she moved in with John and me at the very end. She spent much of that time in a recliner wishing I would slow down.
Now it is me who cannot catch up to her.
Because she was hobbled by mental illness, I call on her when I sit
helplessly by with people I love who are too. Invisible diseases seem especially devious. At least have the decency to leave a rash or swelling. Compassion comes more easily if the invalid is blotchy.
But maybe empathy is less about reasons, and more about giving the benefit of the doubt.
You say that life is hard right now. I believe you.
You cannot remember why to keep trying. I will
sit with you until you do.
The feelings are too big for syllables. That is okay. You don't need to explain.
One of the sad things is that she lost everything in a flood. Two floods. Hence there are almost no tangible reminders of her. A few Christmas cards written by hand. A basket of photographs. The quilt I made her that she slept under.
But it all
seems woefully inadequate for housing emotions that are still throbbing ten years out, with no indications of subsiding anytime soon.
