Clouds of mauve and taupe toil lazily across the sky as I sit and ponder what 69 years of life means. For 36 of those 69 years she sat here every night, looking west over the mountains. She spent her evenings admiring the sunset or watching the rainclouds engage the mountaintops, ready to do further battle with the valley and drench the house. On more than one occasion she commented on how proper it was to have a covered porch, something nobody in the rural Montana community she grew up in had. Even with the covered porch she could see the mountains as they lived, breathed, and brought soul to the little valley she called home for the better part of 4 decades. How often she appreciated and enjoyed the view I don’t know, but it was hers. That little bend of the river, that pie-shaped view of mountains and the river below them, was hers. Nobody else’s.
Now it’s not.
I sit where she sat. I try not to think but how can I not? Random thoughts go through my head with no order or organization to be had in any of them…
Her taking us trick-or-treating when I was in grade school. I’m wearing a store-bought caveman costume. She didn’t buy such frivolous and temporary things often so I must’ve begged to be allowed such a cheap and tacky ensemble. We stop at a friends house and she spends waaaay too much time gossiping with said friend’s parents. C’mon, mom! Let’s go! There’s candy to be had!
Her laughing at my son, then just a wee toddler, as he laughed with delight as his little ham fists batted around a small squeaky duck. At each plastic squeal he burst forth with a baby guffaw, which caused her to laugh all over again. That was 17 years ago and I don’t think I’ve seen her laugh that hard since that evening.
I as a teenager, riding home from… somewhere. I don’t remember. But it’s nighttime, we’re in that phenomenally ugly old blue Toyota van they had for so long, and the windshield wipers are vainly trying to keep the relentless Oregon rain from obstructing the view. She’s driving of course, a stick shift no less. I’m momentarily shocked at remembering that she could do that until I remember how recent her frailty and immobility are. Were. Were now. The rain and the windshield wipers lends a certain cadence to our argument. “My life is half over, yours has just begun.” I don’t even remember the genesis or substance of our fight. But I remember that comment. Turns out it was more like 2/3 over.
5 days ago, telling me how much she wishes I would lose weight and get healthier. How long until I can eat without feeling guilt?
Also 5 days ago, telling my son how proud she was of him for finishing high school and what an awesome car he chose for his graduation gift – a Mustang. Hey, did you know my father bought me a Mustang as a graduation gift when I finished college? It was underpowered and an ugly yellow color, but that’s pretty cool that we both got Mustangs as graduation gifts. No grandma, I didn’t know that. That is pretty cool.
Another car conversation: wondering if I would ever go to college.
Coming home from each night and cooking dinner. Take-out wasn’t a thing with her, pizza wasn’t a thing with her, going back into to town to eat at a restaurant definitely wasn’t a thing with her. Every night, she threw together something for the family. No fend-for-yourself. Family dinners every night, no matter how hectic the hospital had been that day.
Waking up Wednesday morning to a flurry of texts and missed calls from my brother. Call me. Now. Goddamit, call me. You need to call me as soon as you get this.
I knew then. He had done this before, sending urgent messages of panic and doom that turned out to be nothingburgers. He’s all emotion – mostly anger – and no brains, that one. But somehow, I knew this time was it. I shower, I get dressed. I make sure I have some emergency glucose in my pocket: if this is what I think it is, I won’t have any appetite all day and the last thing dad needs is me going hypoglycemic. I have a 9am meeting with the college president. I can’t skip that, it’s been 8 months coming. I make sure I have my nice Waterman fountain pen on me. Normalcy. Can I get a sub for my classes for the rest of the day? I put a notebook in my breast pocket. Prior proper planning and all that. A sub for the rest of the week? It’ll be a logistical nightmare. Whatever, not my circus. I look at my watch, it’s 5:04 in the AM. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. I call my brother.
Yes. No. No. She was doing so well. But it was sudden. Just like her father all those years ago.
Not even 2 days on. Shock has turned to despair. As the clouds continue their silent march across the sky I pull out my phone and read her last text: “do you have our cat carrier?” Random. Innocent. Portending nothing out of the ordinary. They have lots of stray cats and they somewhat vainly attempt to trap as many as possible and take them to the no-kill shelter. Somehow we ended up with their cat carrier – probably when we were helping our niece move down from Portland earlier this year. Weird that we still have it. No biggie, it’ll fit in the back of the new Mustang, we’ll bring it over Sunday.
I make the mistake of looking at old voicemails. Holy mother of God. I have a voicemail from her from back in June that I never deleted – an oversight at the time, to be sure. I listen. She missed a call from me and wanted to let me know she’ll be around the rest of the day if I want to call her back. 18 seconds of her voice. Yes, yes I do want to call you. I want to call you so bad it’s ripping a hole through my very soul.
I’ve seen a lot of misery in my own life. 14 years a hospice worker, almost 10 years a teacher at a boarding school for troubled youth. I have to look pretty hard sometimes to find the good in any given day. Usually I have to look close to home: my wonderful wife, my awesome and kind children – both almost men now. I don’t know if there’s a meaning to our existence. But what I do know is that, above all else, we all have two obligations during our fleetingly short time here: to be a good person, and to help other people. Without those two things we are nothing, we mean nothing, and we leave behind nothing.
And she did both in spades. 69 years. The world is a better place for having her in it, far too short as her time here was.
I love you so much, mom.
