Waiting for Mom

I watched her silently for quite a time. Memorizing the lines, the smooth places in her face, the exact fall of her dark hair, and her closed eyes, I felt slightly more at ease. I felt uncomfortable in this little room, if you would have taken away the pastel paint, the soft music, and all the flowers it might have been any common waiting room. But this was not a common waiting room, it was the most important waiting room. This was the last time my mother would wait for anything. I brushed my finger against the lacquered wood of the box. I refused to call it anything but a box. Yes, it was a pretty box, with satin inside and beautiful craftsmanship, but it was still a box. I sat in front of this box, reliving my memories, waiting with her for the end.

While I sat, I considered what I knew of her. She was a mother, a career woman, an independent thinker, a teacher. I had known her for all of my life, and while I looked at her, I realized how little I did know. The eternal question raised in my mind, is it really possible to completely know someone? No, probably not. But I knew her better than many, I cared for her, and I loved her. I may not know the depths of her heart, and I was resigned to accepting her without that knowledge.

It had taken me a long time to reach that point of acceptance. No one person can be everything to another, but she was there. We went to movies together. We talked. We did lunch. And sometime, between those typical rituals, we found a level place. A place where we both could be friends, ignoring past stumbles and trusting in each other's heart to care and nurture rather than hurt.

I worked every day with her, helping to run a small business. We unpacked boxes, rang cash registers, wrapped packages, and closed the doors each night. Never did she shirk her duty, or rely on a younger back to heft the weight of new merchandise. I smiled slightly as I thought of her tenacity.

She still had not moved from the time that I had entered this room. I watched her thin hands for a moment, remembering the rings that she once wore on them. She never wore the rings now, they were too large for her hands. Every bone could be finely distinguished. Even though they looked almost skeletal, they held a grace. Simple, austere, hard working hands that held children, graded their papers, consoled crying souls. Many times I had held those hands in fright, sadness, or happiness.

We used to dance to the radio when I was younger. She taught me all the old dances: the mashed potato, the Charleston, the twist. I loved them all. We would dance in the kitchen, while supper baked in the oven behind us. She would laugh and swing me about. I felt like I was flying. I never knew more safety than in those dances. We relived the rock and roll era every night in that kitchen, and I did my homework on the table as she cleared the dishes. But that was before those hands were this thin. I would watch the glitter of the fine rings while we danced. It was different now, no more glitter, no more music.

Once again I looked into her face, she seemed young. Makeup gave her cheeks a healthy glow, only her closed eyes reminded me of the absolute silence in the room. And her closed eyes made me conscious of every sound. The rustle of my clothes, my shifting feet, every movement seemed loud and noticeable.

Many people talk with their eyes, this woman taught with them. People watched her face when she spoke, learning more about her determination from her eyes, than from her words. Her eyes would speak to me of the joy that she found within life, the childish glee as we read famous works from olden times, the serious nature when we pored over Casey and his defeat in Mudville, the sadness as we cried over Anne Frank in her attic. She had taught me to find my friends in books, live within them when life was too bitter outside. I wondered if she still could see me with her eyes closed. I kept myself from waving a hand across her face, staying seated quietly in the hard chair.

I finally could look no longer. My eyes swept over the numerous flowers, the pale walls, it was still silent in the room. Only the scent of living flowers reminded me that I started to consider this reminder, the time that I had spent with time was still moving. her.

The stillness of the room seemed acceptable now. My heart had tamed itself with the waiting and no longer felt torn. Time does heal wounds, and while this one would take much more time, the wound was no longer fresh. My pulse no longer raced. I was no longer afraid. This was a part of life and I would move past it. I fought back tears as I realized she would not be moving beyond this. The tears fell freely down my face as I allowed them to finally burst forth from that hidden place in my heart. They burned my face, but while it was painful it lifted the pressure from my heart.

Finally, I rose from the seat and stood beside her, allowing myself to finally touch her face. I did so carefully, permitting only my fingertips to graze the skin. It was cold, and unlike my own. I forced myself to move my hand back slowly, feeling that it had been frozen by that single touch. My fingers went to my own cheek, feeling the warmth within, I stopped shaking. I left the silent room, she had waited for me many times. This was the time I had waited with her. I still did not speak but allowed the silence to voice the only good-bye my mother could have heard.