She sits at the dining room table cluttered with shopping magazines, her only mail except for an occasional bill or health care alert or birthday card. I’ve been camping on a cot in her assisted living apartment since I arrived a few days ago. I open my computer iTunes list to Gil Shaham playing the Korngold Violin Concerto in D, Op. 35 with Andre Previn conducting the London Symphony Orchestra. It is a long-time family favorite.
I am hoping to distract her from repeating herself: Did I take my pills yet? How long are you staying? Did you tell me when you are leaving? Tell me again. I forgot. What am I going to do today? Are you sure I already ate lunch?
Her questions drive me crazy and I want to scream, I just told you that. Instead, I say, Yes, mom, nod, and answer once more. We are caught in a cycle of repeating phrases. Sometimes, my pitch is sharp, staccato, atonal. And, this tone of voice and my own repetition drives me crazy, too. I am becoming her and I never wanted to do that.
Perhaps the music will soothe us both.
My mother is 98 and in a reverie. Her once razor-sharp tongue and mighty mind are dull, docile. She sits in the straight back chair framed by her personal library of hundreds of books she once called her best friends. Her conversations with them translated to notations and commentaries on the margins. Now, the familiar titles and authors sit like icons waiting for the time when we will pack them for family distribution or sale.
In repose she looks beautiful, serene. Her eyes twinkle, her white hair wisps around her face and her melon-colored lips slightly part in an almost smile. Perhaps the concerto will bring her memory back to our magical summer evenings at the Hollywood Bowl. She closes her eyes. I press the computer key to raise the volume. Where’s that music coming from? she asks. My computer, I say. Where? she says. I repeat myself, and we’re caught together again in the same harmony.
She fidgets. I take her hands in mine and apply massage cream. Dry and bony, her hands are all knuckles and knots. Blue veins squiggle over her forearm like inky worms. I gently squeeze and stroke my mother’s hands. She sighs. It’s almost bedtime, and I close down the computer and the music.
Get your pillow and come to bed with me, she says. Really? I say. For years I have dreamed of such an invitation: to nestle next to my mother, snug under the blankets, feeling her arms around me in protection and unconditional love. Now, with my arm around her, I ease her down into bed, kiss her forehead, brush the stray hair strand from her face, cover her with blanket layers and climb in beside her.
She reaches for me, grasps my hand in hers where they settle together on her chest near her chin. I feel the rhythm of her breath rise and fall. I hear the melody of inhale, exhale repeat. I watch and listen for signs. What if it happened right now? I think. I know she is asleep and the music of life ends on a note of wonder.
***
Norma Hawthorne writes and photographs from Oaxaca, Mexico, where she lives most of the year. Her blog “Oaxaca Cultural Navigator LLC” (http://oaxacaculture.com) features arts, photography and textile workshops including a summer 2015 Oaxaca Women’s Creative Writing and Yoga Retreat, and commentary about Oaxaca life and culture. Her home base in the U.S. is on a Graham, NC, farm near Chapel Hill.
