Thinking of You
I am thinking of the way your mouth turns up on one side when you point your finger down at little me and shout Car-oool, in a voice that usually means I’ve done something I shouldn’t have. But the sparkle in your eye hints that you appreciate my rebellious spirit.
I am thinking of the time we met at the Big Boy restaurant on Mother’s Day for the “all-you-can-eat buffet” filled with trays of burnt bacon, applewood sausage and salads slathered in mayonnaise. How I sat across from you in the booth on the sticky green plastic bench and tried to pry out a few morsels of memory from your childhood. Mostly you said, “I don’t remember.”
I wanted to know how you felt when your father died and you rode the train to Kentucky to bury him. I wanted to know what it was like to live in Chicago with an aunt and uncle who ignored you but made you babysit their daughter. I wanted to understand why you discouraged me from taking that bike trip to China but encouraged my brother to do anything. But your usual response was, “Oh honey, that’s all in the past.”
I am thinking of how your sister screamed at you two weeks ago for being late to breakfast—you’d armor yourself in her presence then whisper your feelings to me. I tried to slip through the crack you’d opened, “I’m so sorry, Mom. Tell me more.” You glanced out the window and replied,
“Oh, sweetie, look, it’s snowing.”
I am not thinking of you laying on those crisp white sheets staring past the baby-faced doctor. He sits upright on your bed all starched and stiff with shiny oxfords and pale pink shirt writing with a Pilot razor pen. “Mrs. Anderson,” he shouts as though you’re deaf, not dying of cancer. “Do you know what day it is?”
You squint to see the calendar on the wall just beyond his shoulder. “It’s the 28th of February.” He nods, unaware you’ve outsmarted him. He leaves and you wink.
I am not thinking of your body frayed, wrinkled skin that no longer fits like a tight wetsuit. The midnight trips to St. Joes Mercy Hospital exhaust you more than the cancer.
I am not thinking about standing beside your hospice bed –a circle of women listening to the muffled sound of death stalking you. I am not thinking of how I found the tape, placed it in the recorder and held hands as we sang–
*“Into this world everything is born.
All colors come together.
And we take our place on the sacred hoop
And when we go we fly forever”
I am not thinking of My lips, barely moving, my voice the echo of a child’s.
I am not thinking of the suffocating air that hangs like smog—as your chest rises and falls or the faint rattle in your lungs until it gives way to silence.
I am not thinking of how I will go back to your bedroom and open the closet just to breathe in the smell your life hanging in neat rows—or how I will take the forest green coat home with me and wear it for ten more years just to be near you.
I am not thinking of the sound of your voice still floating in my ears.
*Lyrics from Shadow of A Life by Kate Wolf. Used with permission.
Carol E. Anderson is a life coach and former organizational consultant whose passions are writing, women’s empowerment and travel photography. She is the founder of Rebellious Dreamers, a twenty-year strong non-profit organization that has helped women over thirty-five realize dreams they’d deferred and women of all ages come into their own. Carol holds a doctorate in spiritual studies, and master’s degrees in organizational development, and creative nonfiction. She is the author of the award-winning memoir, You Can’t Buy Love Like That: Growing Up Gay in the Sixties. She lives with the love of her life and their sassy pup in a nature sanctuary in Ann Arbor, MI.
