Thirteen Years Ago
Mom has been in bed a lot lately. Which means I have been in Mom’s bed a lot lately. We watch telenovelas as I paint her nails. We rest together. She reads to me as I brush her hair or fold her laundry. I fetch her medicine. I bring her food and fresh water. I avoid school on the days she’s too tired to push me out the door.
Today, once I was done combing her hair, I wasn’t ready for her to stop reading to me. Hoping she’d continue, I began braiding her a crown, starting from the center of her forehead and making my way around her head. My outstretched legs are acting as arm rests for her as she holds her tattered copy of Life’s Poems and Essays and reads from it out loud.
“Ah, here… This is the one I wanted to read you,” she says, flicking to the next page. I lean over her shoulder to read the title, “Fig Tree” by Sylvia Plath, an excerpt from her novel The Bell Jar .
When out of bed, Mom’s breathing has become noticeably labored, robbing her of the booming, confident voice that she’s always had. But while in bed resting, Mom’s voice still commands the room with her steady and thoughtful narration.
She reads it to me, and I find my hands moving at their own accord as I focus on each of her tender words, feeling them burrow into my chest and make themselves at home. The author describes a tree, filled with delicious figs ready to be picked. “One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor…” The author goes on to describe each of the possible futures she could imagine for herself, how appealing they all are, but the fruit rots as she sits there, trying to make a choice and failing. “I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground.”
Cheery book you got there, Mom.
“This meant a lot to me when I was your age…” she says, bringing her hand slowly to cover mine as I finish fastening her crown in place. I pause, my heart reaching for hers as it always does when I imagine her younger, full of potential that my unexpected arrival robbed from her. “I want you to understand that you can be anything but not everything. And, sometimes, you have to make a choice for yourself, right or wrong, before life makes it for you. I don’t want you to let anyone tell you not to try just because you might fail. Failure is simply an opportunity for those who have time. And you will have so much time. Okay, baby?”
I loop my arms around her from behind, curling my face into the back of her neck, breathing in her familiar, comforting smell.
I know Mom means well. I also know, despite her not saying anything directly, she’s noticed my grades slipping and my attitude about school growing more indifferent day by day. I’ve even heard her and Caleb whispering about missed classes and late assignments.
I don’t understand how she, or my aunt, or Caleb, or any of my teachers could expect me to care about anything outside of this bedroom. What is the point of dreaming or imagining a future when that doesn’t include my mom? I’d rather not think about that at all.
And as for my potential…I know now that Cecelia had the guts to tell me what no one else in my life would. I can’t say all of this to Mom, however, without causing her more worry—and that’s the last thing she needs. I have to be strong for her.
“Okay, Mom,” I mumble against her.