4. Then
Then: September 16th
I t’s Monday and Mom refuses to get out of bed. This has only happened a few times before. She’s been trying a new medication. I was tempted to ask her what it was for but didn’t want to make her angry so I stayed quiet.
I nudge her shoulder for a third time, but she still doesn’t make any effort to get up. Instead, she waves her arm lazily in circles above her head as though trying to shoo a fly. In this case, I am the fly.
“Mom, I’m going to be late for school. Can
you please get out of bed?” There’s an urgency in my voice I don’t recognize. Fear? Panic? Maybe both.
She sighs softly and, without turning around, feels for my hand. I find hers first and hold tight. It scares me a little when she gets like this, but she must just be tired. She doesn’t work, and to be honest, I’m not sure what she does all day while I’m in school, but her exhaustion is evident .
“Don’t worry about your mama, darling. I’m fine. I didn’t sleep great last night, and I’m moving a little slower this morning. Can you make yourself some toast?” She’s squeezing my hand with a force I didn’t think she had.
Even though she can’t see me, I nod my head. I’m not sure what to say to her right now, but I want to be understanding. I want to be whatever she needs me to be.
Clearing my throat, I muster, “Yes. I can make some toast. Are you sure you’re alright?”
A groan escapes her lips as she rolls over onto her back, and her big, brown eyes that mirror mine hold me steady. She’s always been good at that. Grounding me when I need it.
We look a lot alike. Besides our brown eyes, our dark hair matches perfectly in color. The main difference is that hers falls in careless waves past her shoulders, while mine hangs as straight as a picture on the wall.
I share my dad’s dimples and freckles that cross over the bridge of my nose. Mom is a couple of inches taller than Dad. If he didn’t occasionally make an appearance with us in public you’d never recognize us as a family. I like to think that maybe God had a sense of humor when he created us. Especially me, with my board-straight hair and sprinkled freckles dotted in various places across my body like a map.
Mom’s brows furrow, and I can tell she’s studying me closely. Still holding my hand, she squeezes once more and then closes her eyes. I wait another moment for her to say something else to me. Reminding me about the toast, or making sure I brushed my teeth before heading out the door. Instead, she remains silent and still.
From the soft rise and fall of her chest, it’s obvious she’s drifting back to sleep. Her grip loosens and her fingers fall to her side. I lean down and softly kiss her on the cheek. She smells like her shampoo—honey and vanilla.
I’ve never loved anybody as much as I love my Mom. I hope she knows that. I hope as she drifts off to sleep in whatever world she’s in right now, that she knows even a fraction of my love that runs deep and wide for her.