Grandfather Clock

I cleaned the grandfather clock today, just as she asked. I polished the frame and wiped the glass door. I dusted the pendulum and the weights,and used the step ladder to dust the top, too, making sure to check every square inch of its surfaces for potential filth.

But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough for her.

“Now the pendulum’s crooked, what did you do?”

“How did you miss that smudge right there?”

“I asked you to do one simple task…”

I swear if it weren’t for the oxygen tank and the cancer engulfing her insides, she’d stand right up out of that wheelchair and do it herself, just to prove her point. Even now, in her helpless state, with only me there to support her, I am not enough for my mother.

*****

I took Mother for a walk today, pushing the wheelchair through her neighborhood filled fond memories. The weather was beautiful, with a bright blue sky and light, pleasant breeze. I thought that the fresh air would help her breathe a little easier, and the memories could help heal her wounded soul. People were out enjoying the day, smiling and waving to us as we passed.

But it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough.

“The Petersons died, why remember that?”

“I remember when this used to be a good place to live.”

“I have no use for watching other people live better than me.”

Her body is weakening, but her bitterness remains ever-strong,and her distaste for happiness is outlasting her paper-thin skin. Mother has always been cantankerous, ever since I was a child, but I thought the nature of her current circumstances would soften her. 

It hasn’t.

*****

I cleaned the grandfather clock today. Again. For the thousandth time. This time I removed the weights and pendulum so that I could adequately rub in the brass cleaning solution, the way mother had always done it. I rubbed until my reflection looked back at me and I grimaced from the pain in my wrists. Surely this time will be the time that the clock is glowing so brightly that it will outshine her utter contempt for all things good.

But it wasn’t enough. Can I ever be enough?

“Now the pendulum’s bent. Did you put it on the right way?”

“That’s too much cleaner! You’ll ruin the mechanisms!”

“That’s not how I would do it at all.”

Somehow Mother’s heart grows colder with each passing day. She overlooks how I dropped my life to move in and care for her, and showers me with criticism instead of accolades.

*****

My brother called today, the first time in three weeks. Mother was all smiles and eagerly ripped the phone from my hand as soon as she heard it was him. She beamed like the shining sun, as if her long lost child had finally returned after years of being thought dead. She fawned over him as overjoyed words dripped from her lips. 

He is always enough. Better than enough.

“Oh, my beautiful boy! I miss you so much!”

“You are such a good son, not like that sister of yours.”

“I wish you were here to take care of me, come visit me soon!”

Each word was like poison to my soul, and I left before she could see that she got to me. He calls as he pleases, and rarely bothers to visit. He certainly has no hands in the 24-hour cycle of care required to keep our mother comfortable. I am here when he is not, but this makes little difference to her. I am still the villain in her story. 

*****

I cleaned the grandfather clock today. I was certain I could get it right this time, and hear just one word of praise from my ailing mother. I wound the clock with its key, and cleared every smudge from the glass, being sure to leave not even one fingerprint behind. 

But it wasn’t enough. Why can’t it be enough?

“You wound it too tightly! Now the chimes aren’t right.”

“I have to endure more of your slacking.”

“If your brother were here…”

I am also wound tightly, and I may explode. I cannot take another day of being made to feel as if I am filled with ineptitude. Mother is ungrateful and impossible. The cancer is taking too long.

*****

Mother passed away today. I held her hand as she breathed her last breath, my brother noticeably absent. I played the soft music that she loved so dearly, and opened the bedroom door so she could hear her clock chime, one last time. Before she passed, she opened her eyes and gave me a softened look I’d never seen before. She squeezed my hand tightly. Quietly, I whispered, 

“It’s okay, Momma, I  know.”

“You did the best you could with me.”

“You can go on your way now, no need to stay here.”

I love, hate, and miss her, all in one terrible, formidable mix. I wanted it over, but now part of me is gone. I feel relief at her passing, but guilt over being relieved. Even in death, she makes me miserable. 

*****

I cleaned the grandfather clock today. I cried as I polished, not knowing exactly why I was cleaning it. No one was there to tell me my technique was all wrong, or to do it this way or that. No one was there to care at all. Still, I straightened the pendulum and wiped all of the smudges from the metal accents. I took out the wood polish and took my time wiping every speck of dust. In a way, it felt good to clean it, one last time, and I thought to myself,

“You were enough. You were always enough.”

“She was lucky you were here.”

“I forgive her.”

Wiping my tears along with the dust, I put the cleaning supplies away in the cabinet, right next to the bottle of my emotional dysfunction. I don’t need any of it anymore. My heart is lighter, and I am letting go.