I knew this day would eventually come. We had discussed it. We thought about it. We dissected and analyzed the pros and cons. In the end I wasn't prepared for it. In my mind it wasn't supposed to happen for another four years -- when I helped her pack her bags for college.
So I walked around the house with a huge lump in my throat. I peeked upstairs into her room. It was messy as always. In fact, one would be hard-pressed to know it was unoccupied. Then I walked away and pretended the house didn't have a second floor.
I miss the teen angst. I miss our evenings together watching some of the most stupid teen reality shows ever filmed. I miss hounding her about her homework. I miss listening to her talk with star-crossed happiness about this boy or that boy talking to her. I even miss the adolescent attitude (okay, only a little).
My own angst has not gone unnoticed by King. I think perhaps the red, puffy eyes are a little bit of a telltale sign. He has started going with me on trips to the post office. He has taken me for rides in the country. We even drove past Mom and Dad's former house along the lake.
He's trying. But what I need is my mother.
I know Mom's mind is gone. There would be no way to explain to her that her great-granddaughter moved home to be with her grandson. But I still needed her. So I went to visit her and took her out for pumpkin pie and coffee. We sat in silence. Every now and then she would look up, smile and say, "I love you."
I don't know if she knows I am her daughter or if I'm simply someone who comes to visit and takes her out for coffee.
It doesn't matter. I watched her eat her pie. I remembered how she would make two pumpkin pies, an apple pie and banana cream pie for Thanksgiving. I thought about the traditions we always enjoyed during the holidays. I watched as she sliced the whipped cream with her knife. I wondered what was going through her mind to make her want to do that. I wondered why her mind can't process the simple task of washing her hands (she lathers them up with soap and then forgets to rinse them off) but she remembers to say "Thank you" when someone holds a door open for her.
I imagined what she would say to me if I could tell her how sad I was.
She once told me when she was living in Ann Arbor and Dad was in Europe during World War II, she would go for long walks when she was feeling sad.
I remember her talking about the lump in her own throat when the house emptied after the holidays. "It's (the lump) always there when everyone leaves," she told me. "But I get busy and it goes away."
Taking Mom out for coffee wasn't the solace I was looking for, but it was comforting in it's own way. Even though I wasn't able to tell her what was going on, the memories of her as she was and what she might have said helped ease the hurt.
And I keep holding tight to those memories because I fear when she is gone all I will remember is the woman she has become.
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