As each holiday comes and goes, a piece of me goes back home to the days of old. This was written shortly after my mother’s death, but it’s still pertinent in many ways today. Let me know your thoughts.

 

A thousand days and four children ago, my car used to know the way home.  Down Main St., across the Brooks Plaza, follow Shrewsbury St. to Parker. Make a right on Parker and your third left is Pinecroft. Mom’s house is the sixth one down on the right hand side. It is the one with the beautiful gardens and the pool in the backyard. This is where I came of age.

More than just walls and floors, it was home. It was a safe harbor in the middle of a chaotic day with four tiny ones expecting me to answer to their every whim. I can still feel the coolness of the walls against my cheeks, and hear the voices emanating from the kitchen. With a slight lowering of my eyes, I can be transported back to the kitchen table replete with food and drink. Every chair is filled with a loving body. Chances are there is laughter and something sweet to eat. You can bet your life that coffee is brewing.

As I run my hands along the edges of the walls, I feel that this place is much more than mortar board and plaster, it is my childhood home. This is the place were I first tasted the sweetness of a glass of wine at Thanksgiving, here that my sons came when they needed a break from me or I, them. These hallowed halls watched as I discovered the difference between the butterflies of young love and the long- standing, never- ending, cannot- breathe –without- him- in- my- life, kind of love that my husband brought to the front door of this home.

Come with me a minute while I bring you back to mom’s final days. The constant bleeping of the hospital machinery is drowned out by the never- ending ring of the telephone. The smoked ham delivered by a loving neighbor is being decimated piece by piece as people stuff food into their mouths in order to squelch tears. I can still hear mom complaining about the fact that the nurse is trying to get her to eat fruit, something she has always hated.

“Hi Faithy,” she says from her propped up pillow position. “They are trying to get me to eat fruit today. I keep telling them it is already too late. Bring on the donuts and tea and give me my last wishes,” she jokes.

As I continue to wander, I see the metal rooster who presides over the kitchen in my mother’s absence. I hear the wheezing breaths that punctuated the end of mom’s fight for her life. I enter the front door expecting to be greeted with gales of laughter, a jibe or two, and some comment about the catheter stuck deep into the recesses of her ailing body. Instead, I am met with a stark silence. This house has never been silent.

The walls seemed to absorb our voices and hold them for all of posterity. The peeling paint and the faded curtains remind me of the days when decorating was mom’s number one priority. She would never allow anyone into her home unless it was spotless. Now there are strangers milling about administering needles, laughing at jokes and sharing our pain, and not a word out of her.

Time marches forward. On my final walk through, I hear the chiming of the grandfather clock and see the faces of my ancestors staring up at me from behind the glass frame on the coffee table. When I place my hand on the glass, my fingerprints remain forever etched in the dust. Deep breaths allow me to inhale the scent of evergreen from long ago holidays.

I am certain that my mother’s soul still floats in the center of the living room, glad to be home. My new young son and daughter stare at a corner of the wall and laugh with glee. They are laughing with the angel that resides in the corner. She’s been there the whole of my life and all of my children speak of the “floating birdie” that lives at grandma’s house.

Every room smells and looks and tastes exactly like the home in my memory. I still think I can walk up the back steps, through the screened porch and into the family room where I will be met with a gleeful hello and the smell of something wonderful cooking in the oven.

But the old maxim is true. You can never go home again. Now, when I enter the front door I am met with the scent of strangers and the décor of someone I never knew. The dolls, lined so carefully on each shelf, have been removed and replaced by streaks from the cleaning crew. The other woman is moving in.

Who is this odd creature that appeared on my doorstep the evening of my mother’s funeral? Where has she been hiding and how is it I am just now coming to know of her? The answers will haunt me for days, as I have always known that there was a piece of me missing. The piece is the woman who carried five of my step siblings and left my mother longing for my father night after night as she lay dying. I find myself unable to hold emotion for her. I believe I hate her, but yet I have never met her. I am still confused by the starkness of death. The crisp white bed linens still smell of laundry detergent, and my mother’s personal effects lay waiting. How is it that she will never return to this bed?

And then the morning of the funeral comes. I’d like to say it was wet, gray and cold but the reality is it was a gorgeous winter day. The sun was out and the air had a new crispness to it indicating the end of fall and the beginning of winter. It was three days before my mother’s 58th birthday. In my confusion, I enjoyed the scent of the calla lilies and the air on my face. Yet, I am standing at the edge of a sodden grave waiting to lay a rose on the casket of the one who gave birth to me. I am numb.

Beside me stands my father, and the other woman. She’s been introduced as an old friend. Someone from high school that made the trek to Massachusetts to be with my dad, she is an old pro at death having buried two husbands. My mind wanders and I wonder if she helped any of them to their grave. I know the thought is evil, but I don’t care. I want the earth to open. I want to be swallowed by the sod and allowed to sort this mess out before taking another step forward. I know this will not happen.

The ground doesn’t open up. The sky does. High in the heavens a beautiful blue sky floats by while white clouds form an opening. Upon close inspection, it looks like a stairway. The sun shines through the clouds turning the whole mess purple and I believe I see the angels welcoming my mother home.

Eventually, I will be asked to march out of here with my head held high and lead the crowd to my home for the post funeral bash. There are 108 people expected back at my home and my son has been up all night with a stomach bug. I had it the day my mother died, and my husband is holding a bucket now. It would be comical if it weren’t the God’s honest truth. I will have to speak the platitudes and smile pleasantly at the guests. Crying is never an option.

Externally, I will continue to smile when spoken to, laugh at jokes, brush my teeth and hair in the morning, and remove my contacts for sleep at night. Internally, broken pieces of shattered dreams look to sever a major artery. The sight of blood makes me ill, but at least the view will be more real.

Living in denial for years has made me question reality. How do I really understand that the body is cold and being placed in the ground? I was taught of God and Heaven and Peace on Earth, but do I really understand the finality of what lies in front of me?

Now, I am to assume the role of the matriarch. Two years ago, I had a ninety year old grandmother and a healthy mother in charge of the show. I was a bystander. Today, I am firmly planted in reality. I am suddenly aware of the lifelong flaws of the many I have loved. It is not for me to judge, I will simply begin to step forward placing one foot in front of the other until I eventually begin to make forward progress.

No, I will never go home again. I don’t have to. My home lives within me.