mother's day

It's no secret that my mom and I spent lots of time together shopping when I was younger. There was no mall, no store left unturned by Fay and her little hunter, always finished around 4 or 4:30 The ritual would then consist of  picking up subs from The Great Outdoors or a bucket of KFC with mac and cheese, coleslaw, and definitely mashed potatoes. Sometimes it would consist of going home with just one thing, probably another plaid button down for my father mom nabbed from a sale rack at Dillard's, and then eating leftover pizza or homemade barbeque chicken. There was also a good chance one of the movies we rented from Blockbuster remained in its case unwatched. Saturday night was a good remedy for that.

As time passed, our rituals changed, much to my mother's dismay. I was growing older and hated to be around other people and was moody and depressed without direction. She may have also been depressed, too, for reason's I may never know. Looking back now, I know something wasn't right by the way she filled bookcases of our home with things she'd never read or Barbie dolls she never could have had as a child. My mother, the woman who taught me to save things for later, was a hoarder to the nines.

Now, my dad is cleaning out our home and ridding it of the things that have always bogged us down. It hurts because Mom has no say anymore, since she can't really speak more than soft utterances of sounds and attempts at sentences under her breath, hunkered over with an old Cowboy movie blasting away the reality of now. The reality of Mom's tiny, frail body; jowels that are proof of a good life lived, though they hang on a face that doesn't remember past Christmases or Easter suppers. Maybe she does. I hope she does.

My dad has become a scavenger since he was forced to retire. He has found cards that I wrote to my grandma--his mother--, his old military passport from before he experienced The War, photos of the sweet toddler my nephew used to be. There is an excitement as he shows me his findings, like I will be able to fill in the blanks on the memories he wasn't there to experience. I usually can and do, but it is too much to be The Giver of the family, in a sense.

As Mom would have it, even after garage sales and attempting to run a small antique booth, there is enough stuff to assure anyone outsider that love existed in this house. Pflatzgraff plates, cream with faint pink roses on the edge, including the entire set used for every Christmas, Thanksgiving, and fancy birthday. Small ceramic loaf trays that were intended for banana bread she would make for gifts. So many unfulfilled promises lay in every cabinet, drawer, or shelf.

I'll admit, that even seven years after all this began, Mother's Day is hard. The first few years after The Incident, she was able to say things sometimes, still laugh at jokes, dance, all that. This past summer, the doctors believe she had a secondary stroke which has robbed my mom of any kind of joy.

Hallmark was one of our favorite hunting grounds. I loved looking at Charlie Brown stuff or Beanie Babies, while Mom reminisced, examining art or sentimental cards or anything involving Frank Sinatra. How she loved Ol' Blue Eyes.

I write about her in the past tense because I can't make sense of what she's become. She is there, sitting before me, though much more tiny and precious and sad than I've ever seen her in my days. Telling her anything, about my job and how I know she would be proud of me, get a smile and sometimes a kiss on the cheek. It is not long after, though, she may fall asleep on the couch because of her anti-seizure medication, or she will fight being fed, or she will fight, period.

It isn't fair. Life isn't, my mom assured me many times growing up. The first time she explained the Rolling Stones song "You Can't Always Get What You Want" opened the floodgates for her to be goofy in an attempt to distract me from my want of a new doll or movie. It usually worked, but there were plenty of times it didn't.

She wouldn't want me to say it's not fair because I believe she knows it. It's most unfair to her, to have her life shortened by my dad's and my brother's inaction, my fear, and everyone else's fake concern. I can't make sense of it and I never will. For those that try to console people with mother's that are barely there this Mother's Day, we have already experienced the following:

--Yes, I will be stronger.
--Yes, I will remember the good times.
--Yes, I look and sound like her.
--Yes, I'm as stubborn as she was.
--No, I'm not as smart as she was. She was a fucking engineer with any kind of college degree.
--No, God doesn't allow bad things to happen for a reason. They just happen. My mother did not believe in a God who was so vicious that he would tear families apart.

Some days I only believe in God because I knew my mother did and it gave her such comfort. I want that hope she had, that she will be able to live again and be free of this pain. She deserves to sit on the right hand of God and hear "well done, my good and faithful servant."

Other days, I pretend God doesn't exist so I can say this is the end of our story and it will be over soon. It hurts less if there's nothing to come after.

I am not certain how to handle this Mother's Day. Do I get her a card that she cannot read, let alone open and hold? Do I buy her clothes that my dad will not dress her in, or that she will spill Ensure on while fighting not to drink it?

For now, I will just give her my love, and tell her our stories, and hold her. It is more of a gift that she will be giving me than I could ever give her.