My life with Mom was not always about Mom’s life.
The day after Memorial Day, she and I strolled outdoors while she was arguably distraught with the landscapers who had left a mess of mulch spread across the sidewalk while sprucing up the garden beds of Arden Courts.
She simultaneously scowled at the young men, while also brandishing her trademark, I’m so sweet, smile.
Then, her eyes locked in on the benches. She marched straight for one in the sun and sat down.
In a little while, Jack wheeled outside to join us. Jack was younger than Mom, was afflicted with Parkinson’s, but recalled Mom’s name and remembered I was her daughter.
We filled our minutes with talk about what constituted the perfect summer day, and also, how to be on the lookout for sunburn. He told a story about his mother, seated on boat for eight hours, who never once considered she might have needed sunscreen and, only later, screeched at the mere touch of her arm.
The activities director joined us, and produced earphones and iShuffles for both Jack and Mom. The implements were part of the Music and Memory program recently instituted at Arden Courts. Mom’s playlist was crammed full of Sinatra, while Jack’s contained Simon and Garfunkel, and there the age difference was apparent.
After the director departed, Jack realized his iShuffle wasn’t working, so he struck up a conversation with me again. Mom’s headphones had been connected to my iPhone, so I let her mind spin on to the tunes on my player while Jack and I conversed.
I must admit to the difficulty of sitting with someone with Parkinson’s. While Jack stumbled over his words, I wanted to jump in and finish his sentence, despite knowing that was wrong, and also frustrating for him. Numerous times, I held back, held my breath and waited for just the right word to come from his mouth and not mine.
The sun’s intensity that morning had been too much for all to bear. I escorted Mom inside to the join the resident cat, and Jack came along, courtesy of the activities director.
As I tried to part ways with both Mom and Jack, Jack asked if I could stay a few more minutes. He had something he wanted to show me. I was already late and promised to track him down when I returned. In hindsight….there was always hindsight.
Jack had been an avid photographer when he was younger and less afflicted. Of all the reasons he offered for his passion, the last two stanzas of the poem stayed with me. Now, Jack and I were forever linked by art.
Still Life
He once shot photographs
of marshes in the Carolinas
– before the shaking
and stuttering –
when his hands were steady
and he could capture a still life
instead of leading one.
We are outside
on a sky blue day
breeze whispering in our ears
and the wheels of his chair
roll backwards
into a bed of irises
where the tires are stuck
in a triangular rut.
He asks, Please, help,
and for an instant
his life is immobile
caught in that moment
between harsh cold concrete
and soft landscape green.
Later, I show him a book,
The Art of Ages,
a photographic journey
in black and white
through the 20th century
of people and how they lived,
sometimes in filth,
sometimes in stealth.
I only photograph still life,
he repeats.
He wants his camera back,
won’t mess with a new, old Polaroid,
and wants his computer too.
Maybe his brother will bring it,
but not his son
who he sees every six months.
He wants to know
if I have photos of my mother
when she was younger,
as Mom’s head bobs into her chest
and she snores away
the perfect silence of a summer day.
Some, I tell him. I have some.
I keep mine altogether.
The words sputter from his mouth
as he pushes off toes
and his chair rolls
backwards in time.
I take photographs,
he stammers,
because I get to keep
the life I lived.
I swiped left and right between the photos.
Her voice, when saying hello to new faces sprinkled with sunshine, rang through to my heart, resounding of ten days spent in Italy, when I took my parents twelve years ago. I had never seen my mother more radiant than in those moments in the square in Siena, mangiare al fresco, called out by a carabaniere, or holding court tableside with a carafe of vino della casa in Fiesole, above Firenze, with her Italian-American daughters at her beck and call.
Hey Mom,
