Lilacs, Gum, and Mom
The lilac bush on the left in the picture above sits near where my mom’s garden plot was for many years. Over the decades, she took thousands of walks out to that garden, often solo, but also often joined by one of her children or grandchildren. We shared in the delights that ranged from early radishes and lettuce, to strawberries, peas, peppers, tomatoes, cucumbers, and squash.
My sisters Zita, Ruth and I visited the farm on Saturday, after a visit with Mom at the nursing home. Our brother Artie was mowing the lawn, clothes were drying on the clothesline. Ruth and Zita picked rhubarb from the plants in a few different locations. I picked a good handful of asparagus from Mom’s patch near the lilac bush. My sisters will put the rhubarb to good use and Artie has probably already enjoyed the fresh asparagus. I picked a small bunch of lilacs, wrapped the stems in a wet paper towel and secured them in my car’s trunk for the trip home. We enjoyed their wonderful scent on Mother’s Day.
As we sat with Mom during our visit, she sometimes looked my way with what I took to be recognition in her eyes, and love. I saw love looking back. Fleeting. Replaced by the mask of dementia. But her warm hands and a few smiles gave us glimpses of our mom. We first sat inside and visited, then pushed her chair to the front porch and gave her some fresh air. Our time together, conversation, and fresh air were our Mother’s Day gifts to her.
Earlier in the day, my sisters and I were going through some of the clothes that had accumulated in Mom’s closet in her seven years at the nursing home. Most of them held no special meaning to us, but some did. I tried on a couple of her jackets, and in one found a wrapper from a half a stick of gum. Classic Mom. She often shared gum, and it was often a half stick. A pack lasts longer that way. And half a stick was really all you needed.
Classic Mom. Her hands no longer do the gardening, hang the clothes on the line, prepare meals. But her handiwork, her life’s work, continues to grow and blossom in her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren.
Mom rarely speaks anymore. She said nothing at all during our visit, until we were heading for the door. Then we clearly heard her say these two words “Thank you.” You are welcome Mom, and thank you, thank you, thank you!
