Coasting

The loss of a parent is hard; the grief is always there, buried, yet emerging when triggered by a memory, scent, or story.  This is my story.

I remember lying in bed with my mom. She was nearing ninety, and I was in my late fifties. We were coasting, lying there in the early hours, eyes closed, neither of us ready to leave the sanctuary of her bed. It was their bed. 

Dad died in November of that year, and I was home visiting Mom. Having her all to myself was something I was looking forward to. Being one of ten children, it was a rare treat to be together, just the two of us. She had already moved out of the apartment she and my dad shared for several years. A fire two floors above displaced all tenants, and she was forced to move. I was amazed at how she remained positive and handled everything with ease. Change is not a welcome guest for most people, especially not for the elderly. Like most rules, Mom was the exception. 

Her new apartment complex was dated and tired, but Mom knew women in the building and immediately felt a sense of familiarity.  She brought most of her furnishings to the new place and arranged things precisely as they had been in the old apartment. It felt comfortable to her and familiar to me. It was home. 

Still struggling to sleep alone, she asked me to join her. I felt like a little girl again, desperate to crawl into bed with her for nothing but to feel her warmth and smell her skin. The brass bed, a queen-size, which she preferred so she could be close to Dad, looked small but was perfect. I took my dad's side. 

Sliding into bed next to her, the cool linens and thick quilt filled me with a sense of comfort and belonging that, to this day, I cannot put into words. I listened to her prayers; she heard mine, and we talked. We spoke in quiet voices because it was dark and still. We were two grown women, our faces so close, her breath minty and old. It was bedtime. 

Both light sleepers, I tried not to move too much, as I didn't want to disturb her dreams. The soft creak of her ankles as she left the bed woke me, and the lime green hands of the clock told me it was barely 3 a.m. I asked if she was all right; she was; she couldn't sleep and said she just needed some warm milk. She ambled to the kitchen, and I followed. We sat together and alone at the tiny kitchen table, missing Dad, fighting sleep, and quietly talking. 

Morning came too soon. I gently rolled over and felt Mom was awake, yet she was so still. Her face pointed to the ceiling, eyes closed. I watched her chest slowly move up and down under her nightie, a slight ripple of a wave with each shallow breath. She was coasting, floating between the hope of more sleep and the unwanted anticipation of waking up. 

Mom has been gone for nine years now. In my retirement, I find myself coasting in the mornings. When I feel the sun's heat staring through the blinds, I close my eyes and coast a little longer, thinking about her. I wish the darkness were still behind the shaded window, hoping for a few more hours of sleep. Listening to my breath, I drift; memories hang like clouds behind my eyelids, and I remember.

Bit by bit, that’s all she wrote…