| FALL 2002 |
flashquake Nonfiction |
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My mother is eighty years old; my father is eighty-five. And although I see their white hair and wrinkled skin, in that place deep inside me, felt but unseen, they are still young still as they were when I was a child. My mother falls and fractures her knee. She needs surgery and rehabilitation. She needs help from me. So does my father. Suddenly it hits me with painful reality my parents are old. While Mom is in the hospital, Dad avoids the bedroom and sleeps in his recliner. He barely eats. "I miss her terrible," he says, looking away so I won't see the tears in his eyes. I hold his arm to steady him when we visit Mom in the hospital. I speak loudly because he can barely hear. Still, he smiles and jokes with me. In my head I see him straight and tall, lighting up his Lucky Strike after supper. My heart breaks. 
Mom comes home with a walker and a commode. I wash my mother's back and feel every bone. Her skin is soft, almost transparent. Brown age spots dot the landscape of her tiny frame. The implications of needing help to bathe do not escape her. "You are doing for me what I used to do for my mother. If we live long enough, we turn back into babies." "You did it for me. Now it's my turn," I answer, trying to hold back the emotion behind what she is saying. "Some day, your children will do this for you," she continues. I find this as hard to accept as I do that my parents are old. On my living room wall are pictures from long ago: my father and mother squinting into the sun holding a bundle in a blanket that is me; me at three sitting between them. Frozen in time their young, beautiful faces smile out from 1943, 1946, 1948, 1950. When they begin their lives together in 1943, they have already lived through a depression and half way through a world war. They do without, make do, learning early from their Italian immigrant parents that you work hard, don't complain, do what is right, mind your own business, and raise your children to do their best and respect their elders. Other memories come. Mom and I at a wedding dancing the jitterbug on a wooden floor surrounded by old Italian men in shiny suits and chubby ladies in black dresses. Mommy's hair is dark and thick, she is light on her feet. I remember her beaming because most of the people there think we are sisters. I see my father walking down the street on his way home from his job as a pipefitter in the coke ovens of Bethlehem Steel. His black metal lunch pail swings at his side. It is a dirty, dangerous job but I never hear him complain. I never hear him raise his voice or speak unkindly. In memory my mother is in perpetual motion, washing, canning, cleaning, cooking, baking, taking care of me, my little brother, and later my grandparents. She is strict, no nonsense, expecting my best and then some. Independent and energetic, she goes back to work, marking cosmetics eight hours a day at Hengerer's Department Store. Miraculously, bread still gets baked, meals are always on the table, and all of us are well taken care of. Incredibly, half a century passes. Along the way I leave home, get married, raise two kids of my own, laugh, cry, work and play. I often do without, make do, work hard, try not to complain (often unsuccessfully), try to do the right thing, mind my own business, and raise my kids to do their best and respect their elders. For a long time it doesn't seem to matter that I don't visit my parents that often. All of us are so busy. Mom does all her housework, still makes bread from scratch. One year Dad quietly retires after thirty-some years at the plant. After several more years, Mom retires too. Dad cuts grass in summer and shovels snow in winter. They grocery shop together. Mom goes to the mall and out to dinner with her sisters. Dad does what he loves to do: stay home and snooze in front of the television. He helps Mom cook. They spend long hours at the kitchen table, having coffee, talking, playing cards. Every Christmas he decorates the finished room in the basement and we all get together to eat Mom's wonderful risotto. After dinner, Dad plays his accordion and Mom sings Italian songs. While all this goes on, something else is happening: my parents are getting old. Still, Mom and Dad are here, like a lighthouse in a storm — markers for me to look to when I feel lost. The words "I love you," are spoken freely. Hugs are frequent. I now understand how they feel about their lives, their children, and each other. I know I have been given special gifts many people don't have. Not only did I get two good parents, they are still around sharing their love and wisdom, allowing me to honor them with my time and help. Yet, I am saddened by the fact that the length of time we have left is much shorter than the length of time we have already had. I am acutely aware of how much they taught me and continue to teach me; of how deeply they influence my life. The time for taking my parents for granted has long passed. Every hour together is special, every conversation meaningful, every hug savored. Sometimes when I quiet my head and heart, I can see the years all connected and catch just the briefest glimpse of the whole picture. In these fleeting moments I know my parents are still young even if their bodies aren't. And I am still young even though lately, I often see my mother's hands sticking out of my sleeves.
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