We’ve been driving for over an hour. Mom says we need to stop for aspirin. We’re almost there. I tell her to press her palm against the pain. When I think of that home in Birmingham I remember her roast pork, honey mustard, collard greens, big batches of fresh peach cobbler and the drive-in with my first real boyfriend. What was it Aunt Anne said about mom’s condition? Arthritic Self-Imaging – catchy. Isn’t it? Sure. She goes in and out these days but who wouldn’t at eighty-nine. Like the time her dog needed to go and she ignored his pleadings. I imagine she’d been thinking again on John – dead these fourteen years. Yes, but not when Buster had to pee. And, sure enough, he did, right there, in front of the door. After which she rose from her trance, cleaned up the mess and took him out for a prolonged walk. Arthritic Self-Imaging? Really?
In better years mom was hunter, shopper, cook, grounds keeper and all around bold, strong good-lady. I’d seen some of that recently and wanted to make this trip, maybe our last together, so she could see Alabama in spring. A time and place she’d speak of with great reverence. Not unlike the wistful memories of Bountiful in the movies. Little did I know she wasn’t up for even this short fling. Headaches now but before it was a weak bladder and then that unexpected fear of crossing bridges. Especially the long one just outside Memphis. Her hysteria set the tone. And now a headache and another eighty miles to go.
How’s the country-side lookin mom?
Too many new homes, Joleen. Where’s all the cattle?
In your dreams.
And the small towns?
Another highway. This is the fast way now.
How long til I’m home again?
Two hours more or less.
I gotta Pee.
There’s a rest stop comin up.
Better be soon.
Soon – mom.
*****
It’s after midnight. I’m sipping a cool glass of Chardonnay and smoking the last of my Cuban mini-cigars. Mom’s been gone a week. The trip to Birmingham, exciting as it seemed at the time, left her bent. She ended up on Oxygen and didn’t last two days. The final image I have is her, birch-cane in hand, walking slowly from the woods that bordered the old home a wide grin on her weathered face, exclaiming, “The creek still runs John and the willow weeps. All’s in order son – all’s in order here.”
