| It is a night of my 65th year I enter the bedroom, pleased with what I see Photos of dear loved ones, a photo of my mother’s mother All dressed up in a jaunty hat and fox fur stole I glance at the sweet white eyelet curtains dropping to the floor Billowing slightly in the gentle night breeze. |
| Some of my own paintings are hung on the putty Colored walls, along with a barnyard scene that Has always felt familiar, a fading farmhouse, an old dilapidated barn, A dirt driveway where an old woman is stooped over, feeding white chickens. It was a gift to me from my father when I was but a young girl. Was he reminding me of where I came from? |
| I go through my nightly ritual. Having dutifully brushed Old reliable teeth, I take pills, put lotion on my dry, scaly skin, And finger comb my short graying hair. I welcome the hour, ready to surrender to the peace of sleep, Something that eludes me more often than I want to admit. What did today have to offer? What will tomorrow bring? |
| I light a votive candle at my bedside table, adorned With an old runner of cutwork linen. This is time for reflection. Some days all I can do is to tend to my personal care. The constant isolation I experience challenges me to Paint, write and communicate. It may sound easy to me, But there are times when I imagine I will just vaporize into a whirlwind of dust. |
| Carefully I slide into my comfortable quilted bed, Wanting only to be held by my mother, she long passed. I have memories of being a baby standing at the end of my crib, Peeking through the almost closed oak door, to see my mother at the piano Playing Irish lullabies for me. Those sweet refrains Remain a distant thread in my heart: “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra.” |
| I remember being a young child on a cold winter night returning home In the car from visiting friends in a nearby town. I nestled into my mother’s shoulder, the smooth sleeve And soft fur of her coat keeping me warm. I felt so safe. She and I were big and little, she petite and thin, I tall and almost stout. Were we really that different? |
| In my teenage years people said we were more like sisters than Mother and daughter. She was a sprite, extroverted and a lover of people; I was introverted, shy and fearful. Like many teenagers I felt a growing gulf between us, An angst splitting us apart year after year. She wanted me to pursue her star to the lights. I wanted to nest and nurture. |
| We both married sweet talking men Who danced the night away with our hearts. When the music faded she had no choice but to stay. I chose to leave and start a new life. She was angry at my defeat. Now, much later, time has shown how we were alike, then as now. |
| I can think of no greater comfort than her Delicate, soft hand caressing my cheek, Stroking my long brown hair, making finger curls That bounced on my shoulders, Lifting my veil onto my hair with a glint of teary eyes. We still touch each other through the astral ethers, |
| I am at the age when she had become ill, Dementia creeping slowly into her brain. At the time I felt deep, numbing remorse and believed I had lost her. I think she understood in her own way My life-long melancholia. She was at a loss to help me save to say, “There, there, Dear.” |
| I now share some of her physical ailments. Laughter showers me with freedom, a drive to succeed endures, a gift from her. Indeed we were closer than I had ever imagined. I nurture my memories of her, Calling on the she-gods to bring her back to me. Out of the mouth of the unknown we are side by side. |
| I want my mother. It is a growing mantra day by day in my pain. I seek her sweet solace, her deep belief that time heals. This is fear talking to my own declining brain, Fear of dying, most certainly of frail aging. I want my mother, grasping for her touch and warmth. I want my mother to hold me again. |
| Sheila W. Mooney |
| June 2009 |