We don’t receive wisdom; we must discover it for ourselves after
a journey that no one can take for us or spare us. –Marcel Proust
It’s no wonder my mom and I became best friends. Friendships
grow from shared experiences and circumstances, shared location and shared
interests. We had all three. I was the only one still left at home when Dad
died. I went through Dad’s illness along with Mom.
And after, while Mom was dealing with her own grief and
fear, she had a daughter she had to look out for. I imagine that was an added
worry and a gift. I remember the first
night after Dad died, my sister and brother went home with their spouses. I went
home with Mom.
The house was so still as we lay together in the bed Mom had
shared with Dad so many years. Neither one of us was willing to spend the night
alone. Neither of us could sleep. Mom talked me down into sleep with whispered
instructions I still remember. “Just relax your toes, sweetie. Concentrate on
your toes. Now, your feet.”
I don’t remember what body part she reached by the time I
fell asleep, but I remember the relief of that sleep. I was eighteen; she was
fifty. Too young to face the next few weeks, the labyrinth of insurance,
survivor’s benefits.
We couldn’t help but cling together a bit. I know I felt
adrift, school was a blur and I sure didn’t feel like joining the Christmas
doings there. I wanted to stay home, lick my wounds. And frankly, I was a
little afraid to leave my mom in the house alone.
There was stuff to go through, decisions to be made, meals
to fix, life to muck through.
I was a rebellious teen, still, and ready to spread my wings
and she was a little lost. I wish I had understood more…about everything.
I didn’t. But life eventually brought us to the same place, circumstances, of
sorts and we’d always had the same interests.
Like every other set of parents, ours gave us kids’ gifts. Do your best, take good care of your teeth,
don’t leave home with dirty underwear-you never know when you might get in an
accident, pretty is as pretty does, be polite. The two I appreciate most,
are the love of music and the love of reading. But Mom gave me three other gifts almost as
important; gardening, cooking and needlework.
How could I know these five gifts would define me, save me
and heal me?
No comments:
Post a Comment