All those stuffed animals were spread over chairs, couches, the bed and furniture. I couldn’t walk into a room without feeling dozens of bulging eyes staring at me. Sometime, late in life, she started collecting them. Soft furry shapes, always there to silently witness. Companions.
The plastic bags she kept next to the sink which piled up until you had to squash them down or they threatened to block the window. The plastic bowls at the bottom of her wardrobe also piled up because she claimed you can never have too many containers for leftovers. We had enough for the world.
Shoes and slippers piled in boxes, some as warped as a boomerang, impossible to imagine her squeezing her foot in any of them. Hats she refused to wear because they messed up her hair. Distinguished gray now, with darker strands sneaking in like embarrassed latecomers.
Bottles of medicine all over her house. Complaining about her glasses and how she still couldn’t see with them, although she panicked every time she misplaced them. Three wardrobes filled with clothes, many gotten on sale downtown. Cutout coupons covering the kitchen counter.
Failing health after operations, and coping with the loss of her husband. Her huddled weakened frame covered in an oversized red jacket. The big kiss she gave the surgeon just before she went in for what turned out to be seven hours of surgery to save her life. Me, starting the ventilator, rubbing her forehead, whispering, talking, holding, trying to get a response.
The feel of her hand in mine. I don’t sense my mother in ocean waves or stars or field of flowers. When a loved one dies, there is grief and mourning and memories.
When a mother dies, no matter how successful or popular or mature you are, there is sudden, startling understanding of what it means to be alone in the world. – Joe Del Priore (The author is a regular Current contributor.)