The Kind that Last

I was waiting for you, but you didn't come. Where have you been? We were supposed to meet with the guy about my application, she announced as she barged out of the bathroom shortly after I arrived.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mom, I've been at work all day. I didn't know we had an appointment. What guy were we supposed to meet?"

Never mind. I'm going to lay down in the bed. 

There was no guy. There was no application.

Silence... minutes pass like hours.... then she suddenly asks,

Can you tell me what happened to George? Where did he go?

Did she mean when he died?
Did she mean he was just here and now he's left the room?
It was really hard to tell.

I sure wish George could come see me.

"Oh, I know you do. Maybe he can come in your dreams."

What? What are you saying? I can't understand you! I can't hear you!

I bring up Mark's impending move from Montana to Oregon. It's as if she's never heard about it.

Why do you say he's leaving Montana when he lives in Nebraska?

Rod and I lived in Nebraska 25 years ago, but I don't try to explain this. Thankfully, this visit, she hasn't asked where Rod is and why doesn't he come to see her.

More silence ...... more minutes pass like hours ....

It's beautiful outside, but she refuses to walk ten feet to the patio. I feel guilty for feeling so stuck. One day I'll wish for these minutes again, these very same ones that are so brazenly taking her one brain cell, one memory, one interaction at a time away from me.

These minutes tease with flashes of the real person she once was even while they're constructed of long segments of the shadow she has become.

"I'll bring you fresh flowers on Sunday."
Oh, that's good.
"What kind do you want?"
The kind that last.

Yes, those are the best kind.

"I need to stop by the store to pick up dinner for myself," as I rise from her walker seat to leave.
I should go the dining room.
I help her get her shoes on while she protests I can't see them. I can't do it.

"I'll see you on Sunday and we'll call Mark."
OK, thank-you for coming, Sherry, thank-you for coming.

The tenderness and poignancy of hearing her say my name is never lost on me. Never.

And as I leave I wonder if Dad is really coming to see her.
Maybe he is.
Maybe they've been talking.
Maybe he was here right before I arrived today.

When the lines between past and present,
between reality and fiction,
are well on their way to being erased,
it doesn't matter anymore how the love comes.

All that matters is that it does come ~
From those who always carried it for us
Within the chambers of their hearts
That have never stopped beating.

For they have been and always will be
The kind that last.