I saw my Mama today. I brought my coffee. She’d already had hers.
I helped her pack up her favorite piece of leaded stained glass—a loon. It is lovely. She’s been keeping it in a sunny window so the colors pop, but she was worried it might get cracked or broken in the move.
She’s taking it to her new home in a couple of weeks. We double-wrapped it. I made a box out of several boxes.
My mother appreciates a sharp pocket knife. She complimented me on mine when I cut and bent the cardboard to fit around the best piece she ever made. I asked for duct tape; she had some.
She’s forgotten that she made me a mallard and a grouse when she was in her heyday of working broken glass into beautiful pieces of art. She can’t do it anymore. She stopped a long time ago.
The pleasant staff at her current abode have been accommodating, bringing her boxes for her move and chatting when they swing by. I sat in my Dad’s recliner and listened to them bubble with her at the door.
“The people here are so nice. I like them very much,” she said, sitting back in her chair.
I agreed. “I know they are.”
“There are a lot of nice people,” she said. She’s always reassured me of that.
Being nice can make many people happy; I remember this when I see it manifest around me. I need reminders, and my mother does that for me.
Mama will write a note of thanks in cursive for the nice people; I’m relegated to using ugly, black letters on a backlit screen.
My Mama and I are the same but different, and that’s okay.
I can’t make beautiful art out of glass and hot lead; she can’t make one box out of two using duct tape and a sharp knife. We all have our gifts.
“I leave that light on all night since Daddy died,” she said.
“I get it, Mom; I leave a light on in my living room all the time. It’s okay. I don’t do it because it makes me feel safe. I do it because I like to see down the hall when I go to the bathroom late at night.”
She laughed.
“The light makes me feel better. You said this is a safe place, but you never know, do you?”
“It is safe, Mom. In twenty-five years as a cop, I don’t remember coming here for any reason. But it’s okay if the light makes you feel better. I get it. Leave it on.”
She’s not been without him for well over sixty-six years until now. He was less than formidable for the last ten, but he would have put a hurt on you for the first seventy-five, I can assure you. He’d want her to leave the light on.
She gave me a photo they both loved. It won’t fit in her new bedroom on an island off the coast. She wants me to have it. She’s moving in with my sister and her husband.
My eldest took my parents to Ireland years ago. They took the photo during a roadside stop. It’s incredibly moving for me to look at, but I like cows—always have.
“Wasn’t one of those cows facing away, with her butt to the fence, when you took the first shot?”
“There was one.”
“I wish Robin had blown that one up. I enjoy dichotomy.”
“I think they must have wanted a snack, but they came running from all directions when we walked up to the fence. It was so funny.”
“I’ll leave it on your wall until you head to the island if that’s okay.”
“It is. Of course.”
I saw my Mama today. I had coffee. She’d already had hers.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC