Remember-A-Wish

Remember-A-Wish

Yesterday, I sat with Betty.

More factually, she sat with me.

Just plopped down

in her fuzzy pink housecoat -

large eyes, large breasts, large curls.

She wanted to talk to me

about something at the home

that she felt just wasn’t right.

So I listened, in between

my mother making her own

comments on my sweater’s stripes.

Hey. Where’d get that?

Mother asked.

And while I told her,

I was also nodding my head

at Betty, who swears she was right.

I know I saw her working

somewhere else, she said.

And then went on to repeat

her sworn testimony

interspersed with stories

of a mother with Alzheimer’s

and a father with dementia,

how she was raised on horses

and always had cats,

was now owner of “Itsy” -

a Chihuahua in miniature.

Hey, I like that sweater.

Mother tried to join in.

Your mom repeats a lot.

Betty replied but didn’t pause.

What I mostly wanted to keep

was my horse, Randy.

And here, I couldn’t tell

if the name was tongue in cheek

or named after an old beau.

But I nodded my head

as she spoke fervently about

caring for the horse.

And I wondered later

if there wasn’t some way

to make her wish come true.

But if it happened,

wouldn’t her wish just disappear?

My family asked.

And I agreed, It would dissipate,

go unremembered.

But the universe would not forget.

11/23/13

A Walk with the Moon

On long walks,

voices sultry or rasp

often accompany me.

But this morn

I walked with the moon,

her eye, a bleary yellow -

as if staying up all hours

was finally killing her -

trailed me through parking lots

and matted fields.

As she kept pace

and heard my morning moans,

bared her white-gold

wisdom to my complaints.

Miles beyond I reviewed

the mayhem of my day

A glance over shoulder

and she still shone,

wearily, waning and pale,

no match for the bold,

mounting sun.

She tired easily I thought

her nickel-plated shield

that protected the night

now laid down as if

she had stopped fighting

for darkness. Sun seeped in

diffusive and slow.

As I trekked through

the final forest

her glow was now light

for some young child, aside

a seething fire waiting

for tenderness that comes

only with the night.

The Face of Fall - A Prose Poem

Leaves of red maple shoot up in flames, against a towering white picket fence.  My mother looks out on them with wistfulness. She begs of me, Come here. Look. She points assertively at the trees.  And that blue, blue sky.  We marvel together for a moment.  Then she begins to count, One, two, three.  Three, she says again with pride, as she turns to me.

So, I think, let me take her out sometime. Drive her through woods or down my home street.  Show her more leaves. Leaves she made my father pile and bag. She never handled a rake. I can’t imagine her long slender fingers, which tightly rolled nuthorns and other delights, have ever wrapped a rake. But certainly, she jumped in mounds of oak and maple, when they were piled high.

I arrive one Saturday, ready for our drive. I have supplies in my car, in case of incidents I used to expect with toddlers, and now plan for with my mother.  I have a few hours space on my schedule. We have all day, I tell her, when I find her. 

She is in Jerry’s room, seated in his rocker chair, watching an old Lawrence Welk show.  There is no cable - someone must have pushed a button on a video player.

I get her to rise. She follows, but that only lasts for several steps. She wants to turn away from the main door. I let her lead for sometime, and she pulls me over to the bulletin board.  Arden Courts News Center, she draws out. See, I told you.

And when she reads, I am supposed to answer, Yes. She is waiting expectantly, a pupil awaiting approval from her teacher. I am anything but.  I miss my clue this time.  She yanks at my arm again. Rereads the headline.  Pushes my arm away. Walks down her corridor away from the exit.  We are not going for a drive today.

Halfway to her room, she stops and stares, I don’t know what to do.  I am lost for a minute, and then I comprehend. She has had an accident. They are happening with more frequency.  Recent medications are speeding up her digestion.  Or is it the disease?  In this I always wonder, am I witnessing the end?  Will I know it, when she is in it?

We toddle to her room.  I struggle to remove her clothes, clean her body. This does not come without pain and heartache. For she often slaps me when she is in pain or shame. When our task is complete, and she feels comfort, my mother reaches out to touch my cheek, and says, I love you, honey.

My name is not at the tip of her tongue. Most names are not.  But honey suffices.  After accidents, embarrassment and exhaustion, she often wants Sinatra and sleep.

I help her to bed. She never sleeps beneath her sheets, as if  preparing to rise at a moment’s note. 

I’ve got you, Frank starts out. And Mom replies, Under my skin.

I’ve got you, he says again, Mom answers, Deep in the heart of me.

The call and respond endures.

I’d sacrifice anything come what might.

For the sake of having you near.

As if she could finish any sentence Old Blue Eyes ever began.

I pull the green afghan up to her chin. Her arms circle around me, and mine, her.  I look deeply into her puffy eyes as she sings herself to sleep. Her childlike face, beaming. Not at me. Not even at Frank.  But at Autumn’s musical of leaves changing colors. Her lit face a reflection of God’s show.

11/4/2013

Letting Go of Light the Night - Part Two

Last night, cool temperatures of Fall had not been present for the Light the Night walk.  I parked my car near the entrance to Sawyer Point, then my phone rang. It was my husband Mark.  He was getting off call. Did I want company?

A loaded question, as I was relishing in the quiet afterhours of the city, after spending the day at my home, with roofers’ heavy footfalls punctuating every word I typed.  Davis had already turned down my invite (see Part One).

But yes, I told him. Come on down. I’m parked at the meters on Eggleston.  Since most LTN walkers were NOT city dwellers, they would park where they would be paying to park for an event they were paying to walk.  I parked at the free meters up the street.

I knew the drill, stand in line for registration.  Negotiate with volunteer for gold balloon, which signified in memory of. They are in short supply, she told me. I think they are for teams. 

They’re in memory of, I reminded her.  I get one every year.  Gold balloons were in short supply for one reason only, many of these walks, the in memory of's don't join. Its too emotional to watch survivors, or co-workers walking for a friend, or family gathering around a child.  If one is attending in memory of, one is constantly reminded of the loved one that didn't survive, and wondering who else will carry that designation later.

The volunteer shrugged, checked off “gold” on my ticket and handed me another ticket to procure a t-shirt. So I sauntered over to the t-shirt booth and received a medium t-shirt, which I would save for Davis. 

I hung around the food long enough, to give up waiting on Mark and starting chomping on a goetta sandwich when he came up from behind.

How did you find me? I asked.  You’re wearing green.  You kind of stand out.  He knew I had an aversion to wearing “colors” of any given “team disease” during these events, whether it be pink, purple (Alzheimer’s walk), or red for LTN.

Actually, I hadn’t planned my wardrobe, just hadn’t wanted to change.

While waiting in the balloon line, we met up with a former neighbor, who still works for the LLS, and talked briefly about his new home. I commented how the food was the best free food offered at this type of event, and confirmed that by downing a Cheryl’s cookie.

Confession: We didn’t wait for the walk to begin. I was ansty.  And I knew, the BEST part of the walk was watching the sun set over the river, then darkness descend.  That is what I had come to love about this particular walk.

So, we set out ahead of the crowd, and spent no actual time in reflection. Mostly, we discussed our day, the roofers, the dog, the furniture at the house that required assembly, our kids in no particular order.

Our only reflection of the night occurred when we stopped on the Purple People Bridge to marvel at the natural resource we take advantage of.   I snapped a photo and sent it to Davis, to let him know what views he was missing out on, and then sadly turned to Mark and said, I feel like Devin was cheated out on the best version of me.  I wish I could have been for him the person I am now.  Mark knew what I meant, but assured me, If that were the case, that would have meant we would have been stagnant all these years.  I married this man for a reason.

As we headed back across the river towards the park, I noticed flames on the deck of the P&G building.  Mark suggested there might be a fire pit on the executive level, but as we closed out our walk, I could see the flames were coming from the new rooftop terrace called The Top, at Phelps Inn.

We have to go, we both agreed, knowing the bar was probably only open ‘til nine o’clock.

Twelve stories up, we took pleasure in the sweeping view of P&G towers, Mt. Adams and the Church of the Immaculata, the darkened river, and the stadiums lit up like Christmas trees.  We wound down from our walk with drinks in hand, I still dressed in my neon green running shoes, feeling conspicuous with my balloon, surrounded by suits and ties, city folk, and a young couple celebrating a birthday. If you didn’t know you were in Cincinnati, based on the energy of the bar, you wouldn’t have known you were in Cincinnati.

As we conversed with the couple, Samantha and Juan, Juan suddenly lurched up and quickly I realized the balloon I had been carrying, in memory of, was now floating upwards, out of my grasp.  All the patrons began pointing up, as the gold balloon now twinkled with the rest of the stars stitched into the nighttime sky.

I had been joking all night about when Davis was little, how many balloons he had popped, or let go of, or the ones he refused to let go, and fell asleep in the car on the drive home, only to wake and ask immediately for his balloon. 

I had also commented I should just let this balloon go too, because while its not environmentally sound, watching a balloon rise, take on the direction of the wind, or blend in the with stars was akin to traveling through space.

It seemed no coincidence - I had willed the balloon from my grasp and encouraged it to join the sky.

We left the bar, I took Mark’s hand, and we marched towards the car, continued on with our talk about living downtown, how on a warm Fall night like this one, we might just walk down to the river, stalk the sunset and turn towards home.  And how lovely a night that will be.

Letting Go of Light the Night - Part One

Sundays in my youth were filled with attending Mass, pancakes at Perkins, and visiting Calvary Cemetery, which we often called cavalry, hoping someone would save us from visiting the ancestors.

Mass was followed by breakfast with strawberry syrup and Reddi Whip cream draping over top a stack of fluffy pancakes, then we marched on to the cemetery.  We might stop at the local floral shop for cut flowers, bring out the plastic daisies if winter was upon us, or reach for the bucket in the back seat that contained zinnias cut from my father’s garden.

Whlie most might consider Mass prayer enough, the time spent at graveside carried more meaning for my parents.  They mourned the passing of their mothers, Stella Rafaella, while my grandfathers remained alive.  Dad would stop at the markers of second cousins we were expected to recall, or he would stoop down and cut grass with his handy shearers, creating a perfect green frame around engraved granite.

At Calvary, the graves of babies were separate from the adults, and that was where my baby brother, David, was buried, having died two days after his birth. Following the obligatory adult grave prayers, we trudged towards the other side of the cemetery.   My mother and father could walk a straight line to David’s plot, while the rest of us were always uncertain which way to turn.  A parent always knows the way to their lost children.

In these moments, the surrounding energy shifted. The snowflakes might turn larger, the breeze take on an extra chill, or the sun begin to feel as if it might scorch the earth.  The air was heavier, and weight of the sadness grew. My mother would begin the family prayer, “Please Little David, watch over us and help us to be a good, kind and loving family.”  To this day, my mother, in her dementia, knows the words and meaning of that prayer.

The cemetery practice continued long after we were grown. Occasionally, when I was visiting, Mass and breakfast were followed by a short drive to the cemetery, and a casual stroll through the ancestral lines.  I understand now, the practice had its roots in our Italian heritage, as well as our Catholicism, but ten-year-olds see only Friday the 13^th in cemeteries until they experience their own loss.

Thus, when my first husband Devin died, and we chose to have his remains scattered across the Pacific Ocean, my mother’s first question was, “Where will (our son) Davis go to be “with” his father?”  I pointed to the vast body of water called the Pacific that lay in front of me.  Devin’s choice was to be a part of water and not land, simply put.

But as my son grew older, I found it challenging to return to Oregon, or the Pacific, for him to be “with” his father. During that time, we had also begun participating in the Leukemia Society’s Light the Night, an annual fundraiser walk, where, with balloons in hand, we strolled through 2.5 miles of downtown, taking in the sights, meditating on the good in our life.

The first few years we were joined by caring neighbors, family and friends.  And then, either we stopped asking, or they stopped attending.  Or both.  The night belonged to us, and to our memory of Devin, and to Davis’ honoring of his father.

We walked Light the Night for twelve years. The very first Light the Night ironically had been held during the night of Devin’s admittance for his bone marrow transplant.  For twelve years following that first LTN and Devin’s death, Davis and I walked.

LTN took the place of our cemetery, and while at a cemetery, focus is on the ground, during LTN, we focused on what was rising, figuratively the balloons, literally life and the lifting up of one another.

The Cincinnati chapter of LLS moved the date for the walk this year to October and Davis found himself in a quandary over participation. He had promised a friend, one who was returning from a concussion, that he would watch her final soccer match as a high school player. Then, I informed him that evening coincided with the LTN.

A day later, he offered that it would be my decision, but he felt his friends had seen him through a few tough times as of late, and he wanted to support them.  (Apparently, he had forgotten about all our tough times, but I’ll remind him of that later!).

I told him, one of the lessons we learn from a loved one’s death is how to “choose life”, and though he is NOT choosing his mother, I honor his choice of “life”.

I contemplated asking friends, relatives, but knew myself well enough to walk this one alone.  Another lesson we take from death is letting go, and this time, it is not about letting Devin go, but letting go of our senior-in-high school son, ironically just electronically accepted into the school of choice, University of Oregon.

Many years after Devin’s death and I still hear my mother’s voice asking, “Where will Davis go to “visit” with his father? I better understand her graveside recitation over Little David’s marker, the visits she made religiously, and the grass my father tended with care.

And I think back to each Sunday, when my parents let Little David go, the life that could have, would have, should have been. The life they didn’t get to raise, and I am grateful God granted me motherhood and that Davis and I have had seventeen aggravatingly beautiful years together. He has most assuredly answered my mother’s question by embarking on his own quest.