I run an internet based writer's workshop, and was inspired to write this after one of the women described how her father is slowly slipping away from her.
“Excuse me,” I
said to the tall Hispanic man. He stared at his cellphone. “I’m
looking for Rose Levine.”
He pointed to a
small, frail woman sitting in the corner. I quietly walked over to where she
was sitting and stared at a stranger. Finally, I recognized her.
“Hi, Mom,” I began.
No reaction. Her hairy
chin remained resting in the hollow of her chest. Her bony arms (Mommy, you
were always dieting. Was this the goal?) hung lifelessly on her lap.
“Mommy, it’s me.
Debbie.”
Nothing. Her eyes were
barren, the color of an algae polluted pond.
I sat on the empty
chair next to her and gently grasped her hand. “Mommy,” I smiled, stifling my
tears. “It’s Debbie. Your daughter. I came to visit you. From Israel. Mommy, I
love you.”
Not a ripple of
recognition.
Then I felt her hand
grasp mine. “Mommy,” she said. “Mommy, mommy.” She lifted my hand to
her lips and gave it a kiss. Her saliva dripped down my forearm. I didn’t wipe it away.
Mommy loved music. She
had a voice like a nightingale, and she was always singing; as she washed the
dishes, made the beds, did the laundry. Whenever I’d come to visit
her at the Home, I’d take her to some secluded corner and begin to sing. She
always joined me. Even after she forgot the names of her children, and who she
was, and almost everything she said sounded like gibberish, she was able to
sing all the lyrics to her favorite songs. And sing them she did, with an
intensity that could only be described as deveikus. When we sang
together, our souls communicated; and we soared.
So now I sat close to
Mommy and quietly began to sing, “Climb every mountain…”
Silence.
“How much is that
Doggy in the window?”
Nothing.
“K..k..k Katy, my
beautiful Katy…”
No reaction. None
whatsoever.
An immaculately
dressed woman, her hair pulled tightly into a bun pushed a man in a wheelchair
up to the table behind us and sat in the empty chair next to him. There
was too much rouge on her cheeks and her lipstick was a shade
too bright.
“Sam,” she began.
“It’s me, Elaine.”
Nothing.
“Sam, do you remember
when we were seventeen? We were so much in love.”
I moved my chair away
to give her privacy. I could hear her sniffling.
“We were so young
then, but I’m still in love with you. Don’t you know me? It’s me Elaine. Your
wife. Your sweetheart.”
Silence.
I stroked my mother’s
hand. My tears flowed. I didn’t bother to wipe them away.
The Music Man was
playing on the large video screen opposite us (every time I came to the Home,
it was the same video. Always the Music Man). The song “Sweet Dreams, My
Someone,” filled the oppressive silence.
“Sweet dreams be
yours, dear,
If dreams there be
Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.
If dreams there be
Sweet dreams to carry you close to me.
I wish they may and I
wish they might
Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight”
Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight”
Later that night I
tucked my mother into bed and kissed her goodnight. I returned to Israel the
following morning. My family needed me.
Three weeks later I
was back again. This time, for my mother’s funeral.
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