Coming To Terms With Our Parents

Coming To Terms With Our Parents

The familiar rhythmic sound of fingers tapping on wood reaches my ears, alert and ready, and already tells me everything I need to know. It's time for me to feed her.

My mother always had a certain disdain for using her words. She would rather motion or point to get people to do what she wants. Why waste her voice on unimportant things? She would always say. Nowadays I wonder if it's still a matter of choice.

I come to her room downstairs.

The bedroom is gently illuminated through a thin white lace that hangs on the far wall of the bedroom, preserving the modesty of its windows. I was typically quite fond of the morning light. It used to seem like Dawn used her golden fingers to pry through the lace and clasp every surface, hard and soft, in the room within her warm embrace. Nowadays I find the morning light invasive. A constant reminder of Dawn’s uninvited yet unavoidable presence.

I find my mother’s fingers still tapping. It is a slow, tired rhythm. More like collapsing her fingers rather than tapping them. She slowly raises her hand and lets it fall back down on what used to be my bedside table. The sound created is lethargic and devoid of any life. It doesn’t scream out at me nor does it plead for anything. It merely signals, dully, the present condition. Not a cry nor a plea but a continuous and repeated statement from my mother’s hands. I. Am. Still. Here.

I sit her up in the bed and open the windows to a beautiful garden view. My former bedroom housed the best view of the spacious backyard. I used to gaze out upon the shady trees and the birds that called them home and the flowers that lined the backyard pool. A little private sanctuary in the house. Lord knows it was needed.

I remember on a few occasions being so frustrated that I beat the trees in the backyard with my hockey stick to release some stress. I recall, on others, jumping through the agape windows to hide in the garden after hearing the sound of my mother’s footsteps coming down the stairs towards the room. I would use whatever time I had before being caught to nourish the flowers with my tears and talk of moving out.

Strange rituals to be sure, but back then I found some strange comfort in them. The trees and garden never responded to my anger nor my tears, but at least I never could have expected them to. The loud banging sound of my stick was affirmation enough, and the cool breeze of the garden often wiped my tears and sufficed as a hug.

I depart from the bedroom, and start preparing mother’s breakfast in the kitchen.

She never was a fan of my cooking. “Too salty!” she’d complain. My mother was a woman of very particular taste. The kitchen was at all times, fully stocked with various spices, herbs and all manner of other exotic ingredients, and esoteric utensils for precise kitchen use. And to good use they were put. I remember many late nights slaving away in this kitchen under her endless beratement. “Can’t you do anything right?” she’d often ask, though I never could muster an answer. I’m glad her diet is much simpler now.

I wheel her to the table where she eats, pushing aside cups and plates as I lay down her bowl of porridge. I dissolve her medication into the bowl and raise the spoon to her lips. She slaps my hand away and shakily lifts it herself.

I always found it funny how she clung on to whatever independence she had left. In my younger years I could swear she wouldn't walk through a door without asking me to open it for her. "Sweep the floor! Clean the pool! Hand me the remote!..." on and on went my daily commandments.

I ponder how quiet the house is now as I clean the mess she's made on her blouse. With my siblings gone and her husband being well...the house feels a lot emptier now. More like six rooms and a garden than a home. Not that it ever did.

My mother lifts a slow finger to point at the TV mounted on the wall. I guess some things don't change. I switch on the TV and leave her to watch in peace as I get on with my daily errands.

I clean up around the bar, which is always fully stocked though not for a lack of usage.

I hesitantly reach for a brandy bottle and chuckle at my almost child-like fear of the substances which I now handle with expert knowledge. Much like the kitchen, the bar was a site of much beratement, though markedly less centred around any specific point. Aside from complaints pertaining to my “utter incompetence at making drinks”, I could expect to hear anything from corporate complaints to any number of personal grievances, all to be heard through with a quiet nod.

I decide to pour myself a double shot, my first in years, if not decades. I guess some things do change.

Later that evening I returned to the bedroom. I find it clasped in the shaky and pale palm of Dusk, which slowly retreats beyond the shadows, beckoning me to come closer and restore her white lace modesty. There is a humility in Dusk that I have come to appreciate. It humbly retreats with an acknowledgement of night’s sanctity that can only be fully appreciated after a full long day.

As I ease my mother’s frail frame to bed, I scan the room. The certificates of achievement on the walls, the cupboard door I punched through in a rage one night, the full length mirror that never seemed to leave me alone. I take as much time as possible, in part to reminisce and in part to annoy her.

As I tuck her into the sheets she extends a hand towards me. But not in the usual way she does when she's beckoning me to hand her something. This time something is different.

This time she extends her hand with a kind of tenderness that begs to be reciprocated. She motions for me to hold it with mine and so I do. I inch my face closer to hers, sensing she wants to say something. I sit motionless in anticipation.

From her mouth come the words that will prompt tears to fall down my face.

"I see you”