I wrote a piece about the well of tears I’ve managed to keep hidden, but I’m not quite prepared to share it. Like anyone working through grief, it can overwhelm your stoic nature without fair warning.
In the last few weeks, along with my little sister, I have been focusing on moving my Mama to her new island home.
Mom has moved twice over the last couple of years, first from a large apartment at my home and now from the smaller place where she shared the last days with my Dad, her husband of sixty-six years. We hoped the simplicity of the living arrangement would help him thrive longer, but we don’t control those things, do we?
I’ve sensed some frustration from Mom, as she doesn’t like being told what to do, and sometimes, I can be short and to the point.
As her son, I assure you that I do it out of love. This move has been so challenging and overwhelming, forcing her to focus on getting rid of more of her lifetime of memories and possessions.
It can be paralyzing, and it makes me deeply sorrowful to have to oversee it all. Moving her into a single, large bedroom demands that we make hard choices.
One of my toughest moments came yesterday while I was leaning over a moving dolly, wiping away sweat while taking a break from loading yet another trunkful of her life into her little car, trying to make sure that she made it to the coast in time to get onto the three o’clock ferry boat.
Out of the blue, she said, “I can’t get over how much you look like your Daddy.” I had to turn away, focusing on the sunshine coming through the window, hoping the bright light in my eyes could be blamed for the welling-up of tears. But she knew. You can’t hide your feelings from your Mama.
I hustled another load down the hall, out the doors, and into her little blue Honda. While outside, I took an extra minute to dry the inevitable leakage onto the sleeve of my flannel. I don’t control those things, you know?
Once I had her buckled in the car and crushed down the excessive dunnage in the backseat so that she could peek at cars behind her in the rearview, I kissed her head and told her to call when she was in line for the ferry boat.
“Do you have a book, in case you’re there early?”
“No, but I’ll be fine. Don’t forget to tell the ladies in the kitchen that I won’t be down to the dining room tonight for supper; I told them I was coming.”
“I’ll take care of it. How much gas do you have?”
“Over half a tank.”
“You can stop for gas, but they also have gas on the island. You have plenty to get there. Just don’t miss the boat. Maybe Jason can come across the bay and pick you up if you do, or I’ll drive down to grab you, and you can stay at my house tonight.” She laughed.
“I’m not helpless, you know.”
“I know that, Mama. I know that.”
I watched her leave, surprised at her caution behind the wheel, feeling bad for anyone behind her who might be in a hurry.
I finished moving more items and cleaning up the place a bit more, then headed home. It was late in the day when I saw the round rainbow orb on my cupboard—it had never happened before, but that’s a story about yesterday.
Today, my nephew drove up from southern Maine. He moved into his first house with his family, and there were some furnishings that we had that he could use.
He came to my Mom and Dad’s old apartment at the far end of my house, where some of their old furniture still resides. We loaded the truck quickly since we had to pick up a few extra things from Mom’s now-old apartment.
Mom lost her Mother’s ring years ago; she’s been sad about it, but she never complains; she hides her tears like I do.
What you need to know about my mom is that her kids have always been the most important people in her life. She never worked outside the home, simply so she could be there when we left and when we got home. She made our meals, kissed our boo-boos, and told me—often—to go to my room to wait for my father to get home.
We bought her a four-stone Mother’s ring a long, long time ago. One day, she lost it, never complaining but sadly and quietly longing to get it back. So much so that we, her kids, bought her another last year. She loves it, but it’s different from the original. It’s not the one she got on Mother’s Day when we first surprised her. Dad was here then, too.
My nephew and I were moving furniture into the box truck this afternoon. Mom had to leave many furnishings behind the first time she and Daddy moved away—furniture they’d had for thirty years, maybe longer.
I’ve kept their apartment empty except for their excess belongings, mostly because I can’t find it in my heart to rent the space. I’ve had more than my fair share of frustration in dealing with people’s problems, and I am not accepting or importing new issues at this point in life. It’s simply cold storage.
My Dad’s bedroom looks almost exactly like it did when he left, and I like it that way.
I digress.
Hastily, I emptied some drawers on a small occasional table that had been close to my Mother’s recliner for decades—pens, papers, notes to self, a tape measure, lifesavers, and pennies. I even found some forever postage stamps, and I felt good that I could give them to her the next time I saw her.
After loading was complete, I returned to the main apartment door, waiting to go through and see if there was anything else my nephew needed.
I looked down and noticed a glimmer of gold. I knew what it was almost instantaneously. We have had many discussions centering on her sadness at losing the prized possession.
It must have fallen out of that chairside stand. However, I emptied the single drawer in its entirety into a small plastic trash can, and I was thorough, even in my haste.
Once I pointed it out to my nephew, I said, “That ring has been missing for years. It could have fallen out anywhere outside in the driveway and rolled under the leaves or into the mud, but it fell right on this rug in the doorway. It’s like somebody placed it there.”
Scotty said, “Wow, Uncle, talk about a God thing.”
I looked for a beam of sunlight, hoping I could blame the tears on something else, but I gave up and used my sleeve again.
I called my Mother. She was in the kitchen at my sister’s. I relayed the story in short, supposing she might have taken it off to put lotion on her hands at some point, placed it safely in a drawer, and forgotten where she stored it.
It could also have been stuck in a crevice of that table; neither of us knew, but her original Mother’s ring would be back on her finger within a week or so.
For a few moments, Mom’s voice sounded different, better.
She shed tears and had a slight quiver in her voice. She was amazed and thankful. A heartfelt ensemble of sheer delight accompanied all of that.
It was raining, and since I was alone in my truck, I went directly for my sleeve again. But we don’t control those things, do we?
From the Jagged Edge of America, I remain,
TC