story about parents scold us for being foolhardy
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Squeaks announced Mother's approach. Her sturdy rubber-soled shoes sounded more like a solitary basketball practice than a struggle to cross the parquet flooring assisted only by the solid, metal legs of her walker. Her labored effort echoed from the empty closet as she passed. I followed her progress until, framed by the door, she stopped. Taking a stabilizing breath, she mouthed my name, “Miriam.”
Mother had a hesitation before every action: the mental evaluation, a wait for confirmation, a noticeable need to place each object into a familiar classification. She transformed before me, jerking frail body upright, hands tight on the support bar and adjusting attitude from confusion to confidence. I saw Mother’s upright was not what it had been, and on this day, slightly stooped. The conviction was an attitude she projected to shield herself from judgment, the same bravado despised in her own mother and categorized as stubbornness in her mother-in-law.
A spring breeze drifted through the open casement, bringing with it the scent of pine branches newly tipped with delicate bud. Behind the house, oaks towered on a jagged ridge leading down to a cavernous ravine and a path swallowed in fragile vegetation. A robin called in the early morning. The air was pungent, thick with overnight dew, and I looked at the sky where forceful gray clouds foretold rain. I wondered why I’d come to this Pennsylvania spring.
What could Mother say? It was a silly question. She never slept well—hadn’t slept well since my father’s passing. Instead, Mother moved through each day with heartbreak and loneliness. She cherished my visits but had spent too many years in angry solitude. The years forged a distance between us and she meant to hold me accountable. When the knock sounded, we listened without comment. The noise took me back to the first night of my visit when Mother slowly rocked, looking into middle space, searching for something to say. She waited for me to entertain her—our lives so different it was awkward to make conversation. She moved her chair soberly back and forth, and I struggled to find topics of mutual interest. The knocking began. I thought perhaps a chair spring protesting, and asked her. Mother said she didn’t know. It was an answer that dismissed the sound as unimportant and left me wondering if she’d heard the noise or the question.
It was the third day of my visit when the physical therapist discovered
The edges of my thumbs grew tender from shuffling cards. A game of Scrabble lasted hours while Mother contemplated each play. Apologies, regrets, and what would she do when I was gone, punctuated meal times. During quiet hours of reading, we’d listen for the robin’s taps. Occasionally, I’d check the ground below the window expecting to see his unconscious body, but my fears went unfounded, and the days drifted past.
He thumped the glass the next morning. I smiled. Like fantastic coffee or an exquisite meal, the taste of satisfaction filled me. Mother suggested we name him El Niño. He was unpredictable, she said, but her relief was as great as mine. That night we giggled like school girls, retelling favorite family anecdotes and recounting good times.
On the day I departed, Mother stoically braved the walkway, cell phone secure and handy in the bag. Tears threatened in her glistening eyes. I asked if she was in a hurry to drive. She returned my look with an expression I recognized as her mother’s mixed with the stubbornness that would have done her mother-in-law proud. She made me promise not to grow old.
“Miriam, I’ll miss Julie’s wedding,” she argued, “and the Church dinner is Saturday.” She positioned the lifeline bag close to her body and leaned crookedly on her cane. She wouldn’t meet my eye. I’m sure she meant, I’ll miss you and why don’t you live closer? I saw salty tears teeter on her lower lid.
“Yes,” I said, “that’s what happens when the world goes on.”
My mother’s eyes are expressive, and in them, I saw pain, gratitude, and pride. Her expression confirmed her progress toward indomitable recovery. I had no doubt, she’d be behind the wheel as soon as I was gone.
“We’ve seen the last of him.” Mother said, shifting on her cane, a wince passing across her face.
“He has responsibilities,” I said.
Pennsylvania spring: lawns greening, buds unwrapping, life popping anew. It all made her appear frail and innocent. I wanted to take her in my arms. I wanted her to be young.
Clicking the seat belt , I started the car. Mother stood back, as straight as her aging back and fractured hip would allow.