salience
January 14, 2007
Every now and again I'm reminded. In the case of these holidays just passed, I couldn't ignore it. Everywhere I turned there it was staring me in the face: I have no mother to turn to for advice or comfort. When I marry, I will have no mother to sit with my father. A woman may still be alive who resembles my mother, but the woman we all knew and loved is gone. I've practiced a couple of times already: Lorenzo's graduation from Milton; my graduation from BC; mass on Christmas morning. My favorite thing to hear is my extended family's opinion. How it isn't my problem. M'ja walk away and live your life. All said with a straight face as I stand in my cousin's kitchen, she hugging her mother, my aunt. Sure. Excellent, thanks so much, that makes so much sense. Especially coming from you. 'Cause you of all people can understand.
Anytime I do let myself think about it, I immediately visualize that scene in What Dreams May Come. The mother has taken her own life after losing her husband in a car accident. Robin Williams plays the husband and sees his own version of heaven. He's elated to think maybe his path in the afterlife could cross his wife's, only to find out she is in purgatory, in her own self-inflicted hell. He vows to find her, even daring to cross the river Styx. That scene when he first sees her again, in a replica of their old home, only decaying and filthy. That image, of her pining and always searching, going from room to room looking for life, that is what I see when I see the woman who is my mother. She is no longer herself, but a distracted, muttering, incomprehensible shell. Her eyes are so sad, distraught and she never knows quite what to do with her hands.
This past Christmas Eve my sisters and I took her to lunch. It was quite an ordeal as she did not want to be seen in public, she did not want to leave her empty two bedroom apartment for fear her neighbors would know she did in fact live in their apartment complex. She does not eat nor sleep. It had been a year since I had seen her, and to watch her try and make herself eat was possibly the worst thing I've witnessed in a long while. My sisters and I, as we did Christmas Eve 2005, did our best to try and make small talk. Try and make her smile. My uncle asked us to take all of the pictures of her side of the family he'd organized in going through Dad's house back to her. I carried all of the frames and albums awkwardly in my hands as we walked her back up after lunch. The pain in her face as I handed each over one by one was indescribable.
Afterwards, anywhere we went, my eyes kept catching mothers and daughters out together. More often than not, the daughter was irritated at the mother for some reason, or they were in the middle of an argument. Somehow the mother was doing wrong, simply not good enough, the daughter obviously exasperated. Each and every time I lowered my eyes and swallowed a scream.
Do me this one favor. Please? The next time you are with your mother, reference an inside joke. Watch her eyes light up in recognition, and notice a smile spread slowly across her lips. Count to three before you say anything further. Record that smile in your mind. Treasure it.
I would give anything to see my mother's smile once more.
Anytime I do let myself think about it, I immediately visualize that scene in What Dreams May Come. The mother has taken her own life after losing her husband in a car accident. Robin Williams plays the husband and sees his own version of heaven. He's elated to think maybe his path in the afterlife could cross his wife's, only to find out she is in purgatory, in her own self-inflicted hell. He vows to find her, even daring to cross the river Styx. That scene when he first sees her again, in a replica of their old home, only decaying and filthy. That image, of her pining and always searching, going from room to room looking for life, that is what I see when I see the woman who is my mother. She is no longer herself, but a distracted, muttering, incomprehensible shell. Her eyes are so sad, distraught and she never knows quite what to do with her hands.
This past Christmas Eve my sisters and I took her to lunch. It was quite an ordeal as she did not want to be seen in public, she did not want to leave her empty two bedroom apartment for fear her neighbors would know she did in fact live in their apartment complex. She does not eat nor sleep. It had been a year since I had seen her, and to watch her try and make herself eat was possibly the worst thing I've witnessed in a long while. My sisters and I, as we did Christmas Eve 2005, did our best to try and make small talk. Try and make her smile. My uncle asked us to take all of the pictures of her side of the family he'd organized in going through Dad's house back to her. I carried all of the frames and albums awkwardly in my hands as we walked her back up after lunch. The pain in her face as I handed each over one by one was indescribable.
Afterwards, anywhere we went, my eyes kept catching mothers and daughters out together. More often than not, the daughter was irritated at the mother for some reason, or they were in the middle of an argument. Somehow the mother was doing wrong, simply not good enough, the daughter obviously exasperated. Each and every time I lowered my eyes and swallowed a scream.
Do me this one favor. Please? The next time you are with your mother, reference an inside joke. Watch her eyes light up in recognition, and notice a smile spread slowly across her lips. Count to three before you say anything further. Record that smile in your mind. Treasure it.
I would give anything to see my mother's smile once more.
lasaliente, 21:44
