A fantasy on the first anniversary of Mom’s death

by Pat Laster

 “Come in here, Mom,” I said, as she swept into the house where she’d lived for 64 years. She glided to a stop. Looking around the living room, her lips thinned, eyes clouded, brow furrowed. Upturned palms panned this area of the family home––now mine. I half expected her to say, as she had during the last days, ‘What are you doing here?’

I pushed a swivel chair under her so she could view the entire room. “We sold your sofa. None of your heirs needed it. This one’s mine, remember?”

Mom cast one arm toward her piano that was still where she left it. Mine stood beside it. “Carolyn doesn’t have room for it in her house.”

Slowly, she surveyed the rest of the room, shaking her head.

“No one needed the cabinet stereo, so I gave it to my friend Dot. Your hospice nurse wanted the macramé plant hanger from that corner. Doesn’t your pink recliner look good there?”

Mom lifted her hand toward the sunroom that I had turned into an office. She held my arm, rose from the chair and moved toward the bright area. At the double doorframe, I turned a rocking chair around and eased her down. She shivered; I shawled her shoulders with one of her throws.

She studied the room. Nothing stood where it previously had. The only familiar piece was Granddad Noah’s handmade library table.

She spotted her African violets. For years, the stunted blue-flowered plants merely existed in plastic yellow pots set on spiraling ledges of a wrought-iron stand. I’d repotted them into ceramic containers and sunk two more into blue pottery jardinières.

With regular care and plant food, the violets had thrived; the blooms were profuse. Mom motioned to one and held out her hands. I took it down and let her hold it on her lap. For the first time, she smiled.

We continued the slow journey through the house. In the dining room, she finally relaxed. Her massive china cabinet still stood in its place. She didn’t seem to notice that the oak buffet was on another wall, and that my china hutch was in that space. As if she had just come in with the newspaper, she sat down at the table—as cluttered now as it was then, albeit with different items—reached for the unfinished crossword and the ubiquitous pen, and went to work—an eerie scene of dejavu.

After lunch, where we watched the birds in the birdbath and beautyberry bush, and before viewing other changes, Mom agreed to a nap.

The bathroom wall heater still warmed. A flea-market picture frame held a picture of her and her mother. She seemed pleased.

After she lay down, I placed a pillow under her knees, then added blankets until she motioned to stop.

Later, we walked into the bedroom where Dad endured his final illness. It now served as my sitting room. The hide-a-bed sofa was the only thing she recognized. Her face twisted; she shuddered and turned away.

She led me to the room beyond the kitchen which was her sitting room. When she noticed her houseplants, her eyes sparkled for an instant, but faded like a firework.

Suddenly, Mom tugged at my arm, and then skimmed unaided across the hardwood to the front door. She scrabbled at the hardware like a pet wanting out.

I opened it, and before I could kiss her, she was gone.     #                                    © 2012, Pat Laster