Writer in the Forest

Chapter 28
The flesh now hung off my mother’s arms, incredibly wrinkled and gray. She’d pull on the loose skin and laugh, “No way, that couldn’t be my arm!” Breathing and walking became so difficult, she could only take a few steps. Sometimes I’d find her staring off into space, as if she patiently awaited whatever might happen next, no thoughts in her way.

In early March 2002, Mom took her meals in her room for a few days. She just felt out of it, she said. She didn’t want to go to the hospital, but agreed to go to the doctor in the morning. I stayed later than usual, slightly alarmed because it seemed so odd that she stayed in bed throughout my visit. I sat at the foot of the bed.

“You turned out good,” she said quietly, clutching her blanket, her hazel eyes overflowing with love.

“I had a good teacher.”

Her jaw quivered, my eyes blurred. She said she’d done the best she could, but was it good enough? I assured her she did just great.  So many times since then I wish I had taken just a few more minutes to tell her how much I admired her for never giving up on love. For the willow she was, bending in the wind through all the storms in her life.

Tomorrow would be another day. I tucked Mom in and headed out of the apartment.

“I love you,” she rang out as I reached the door.  I went back to her bedroom, peeked in and said “I love you too, Mom”.

Little knowing there were only 14 hours left.