by Tracy Million Simmons
Mom always sits up when company comes, no matter how much we urge her to lie down and rest. She sits on the wheat colored sofa, facing the windows where the morning sun shines in so that she can see the cars of her visitors come and go. On happy days, when all her children and grandchildren are home, she watches the activities which they keep in view of her windows – riding the go-carts, bouncing basketballs, or teaching the little ones the joys of tricycling. She sits propped by pillows, yet not quite comfortable – arms too stiff at her sides, head held too carefully atop her shoulders, breathing slow and deliberate.
There was a time when Mom was the one leading the outdoor adventures and we never limited ourselves to the yard in front of the windows. The world was our playground. Bikes took us on long treks to visit "haunted" houses or to explore the old Amish cemetery. On horseback we would ride to Dodge City, giggling as we tried to make our horses step on the cord to ring the bell at Mr. Burger. We’d lounge in the grass next to the unused railroad tracks, sipping cherry limeades while the horses happily munched around us. If our destination was too far for foot, bike, or horse - we’d load up the car with Mom behind the wheel. She took us north to see the giant sand castles of Pyramid Rock, or south to Jacob’s Well. We searched for fossils. We watched baby buffalo.
The room fills and empties of people like tides of an ocean beach. Mom shows her appreciation with a greeting and a tight smile that reveals her dentures a little too large, sneaking past thin, colorless lips that she has to lick to return to their rightful place over her teeth.
Mom always loved the ocean. Her favorite vacations were the ones when Dad agreed to take us to a coast - any coast. She would splash in the surf, wiggle her toes in the sand, and collect seashells to decorate her bathroom. Yet, she made her home where the oceans were of wheat and the horizon stretched far and wide as an ocean of nothing but dry..
The visitors sit and talk – some taking her cold hands in their own, wondering at the largeness of her bones under the thin, smooth skin. Some dare to look at her for long periods of time – taking notice of her protruding knees and large feet which seem unnatural to her body, hung with neat, but oversized clothing.
For my wedding Mom bought
herself a beautiful blue, floral dress. She had plans to make herself an outfit,
but after sewing my gown and the dresses for bridesmaids and flower girls - she
was out of time. Always the seamstress, Mom never hesitated to take her time
inspecting some article of clothing she admired so that she could go home and
recreate it from memory.
Her skin is yellowing, only the dark spots of age standing out to
declare the color of her past complexion. Her lilac turban, adorned with a gold,
circular broach, sits atop her smooth, round head – the newly grown hairs of
gray peeking out here and there. It is only behind her large-rimmed, shaded
glasses that the glimmer of life which once belonged to her entire being
flickers in pools of blue-gray.
When I was little, Mom would roll her hair in curlers every night. She would wrap her head in a scarf and the next morning her hair would fall in soft brown ringlets that she would brush into shape. When she grew her hair long, we taught each other to French braid - each of us using the other’s tresses for practice. Mom was so thankful when the streaking gray hairs, which only managed to fade and yellow her brown hair, finally took over to give her locks of silver. She was forever creating new baubles to tie back her hair or wrap around a bun.
The doctors are looking only to control Mom’s pain. Pain that Mom, somehow, is still able to hide, except in her very weakest moments. Visit her early in the morning when she isn’t quite ready to face the day and you may catch her crying. You may hear her curse the cancer and lament about the unfairness of it all. But most likely you will find her smiling and believing, though you can see how the chemotherapy is draining her very core, that the treatments will only mean an end to the cancer.
Mom was always sticking little scraps of paper with inspirational sayings up all over the house. When I was little she made a sign for my door regarding patience and grace, two qualities I continue to struggle with. Mom believed strongly in the mind’s power over the body - even before such powers were made popular by the new age wave and the media. Every new tumor that appeared on a test result was met with a new saying about living and happiness. A note would be posted on the wall by the light switch, stuck to the bathroom mirror, hung with a magnet on the refrigerator, or added to the notepad in her purse.
She sits with her shoulders straight; soaking up the
energy of mingling loved ones. Sometimes their conversation drifts about her as
if she isn’t really sitting there at all. Then, she carefully leans forward to
accept a kiss from a granddaughter who has brought a toy for her to see. A drift
of floral powder catches the attention of those nearby and they expect, for a
minute, to see her get up from the sofa and busy herself with hostess activities
that were once her hallmark. The room falls silent as all watch the laughing
toddler who dances in circles for Grandma. Each remembers a time when she,
Mother and Grandmother, danced too.
©2005 Tracy Million Simmons
