There's Rosemary, That's for Remembrance

Enjoying my egg scramble breakfast on the spacious Sunday morning, perusing my favorite Substacks, I’m reminded by one: Oh, it’s Mothers Day. I swallow a sip of coffee, eyes glossing over, because I forgot, bad daughter. Because I’m eating my breakfast alone – and Mom should be here with me - drinking mimosas. Because she left too soon – before I was ready – before we’d resolved things.

It will be 12 years in June – and now, this beautiful spring day in Washington – a day she would love to enjoy with me and I with her – on the front porch, eating bagels, reading the paper – no, delete that – she would abhor what’s happening in our country and our world today. She would have boycotted the Washington Post with me.

Instead of hopping on my bike, I am going to write this – I’m not sure where it will go. To the dark side or to the light.

Fingers hovering over keys – I allow a memory to appear - of just this morning - before I learnt it was Mother’s Day. I went out to my rosemary bush – the one I planted years back with a compost of her ashes. It took a beating this difficult winter, and I’ve been trying to revive her – trimmed off the dead branches, mulched her. And this morning - as most mornings - I brought a pot of leftover dishwater and gave her a drink. I fingered her fronds and sniffed my fingers.

“There’s Rosemary. That’s for remembrance,” says Ophelia – Hamlet Act IV, Scene 5. Mom was a Shakespeare fan – could quote the sonnets by heart.

Then my mind goes to Friday – a cocktail party I hosted to celebrate Gala Theater’s new production. Mom would have loved to have been there – party girl that she was – raising a glass with us. But, ah, yes, she was…

A story came up amidst the guests – a friend, now a grandma – had her eyeglasses smashed playing a game of T-ball with her grandson. The glasses had protected her eye from the line drive.

I had to tag on recalling my shiner story – the time my best friend Kelly – she at bat, me on the mound, Wyngate Girls softball – drove one straight into my right eye – knocked me out cold. When I came to – I was fine – better than fine. I touched my orbital bone. Nothing broken. But - our coach held up her mirror compact - I had the most brilliant indigo shiner.

Kelly came home with me after the game. Mom was in the kitchen preparing sandwiches. She oohed and ahhhed and did the ouchie dance at the kitchen counter. "Does it hurt, kid?" She gave me an aspirin for the swelling and brought me ice wrapped in a dishtowel.

"A little," I said, pressing the icepack to my eye, ready to cry, because that’s what Mom love does sometimes.

“Kelly did it,” I pointed. “Line drive, Mom, straight here. She made it on base.”

“She gave you a black eye,” Mom bit her thin lips together, looking very serious. “And you bring her home to lunch?”

I looked at Kelly. “Sorry, Mrs. P but…”

Mom’s lips turned upward and she burst forth with her throaty kah-kah-kah laugh. Kelly and I joined her. Then we sat down to our bologna and mustard sandwiches.

It was a small and inconsequential story – but it brought Mom back - to the party.

Now, through these words, she’s seated right beside me. I’m 12 or 13, again.

But things are about to get more complicated. My father losing jobs – my father drinking – my father throwing fits – threatening us with his magnum – my mother hiding out in the blue bedroom, in denial, in depression.

Me, willful eldest, urging her – do something!

She couldn’t or wouldn’t. Dizzy spells – eyesight diminishing – scared it was cancer – you’re nutzo, mother – it’s all in her head, said Dad. His sarcasm masking the fear – his terror taking its toll on all of us.

Wait, this Mother’s Day piece wasn’t meant to go this way.

Though there can be no light without darkness…

I found an escape – saved and entrapped by my music teacher – a married man 18 years my senior. I was the babysitter to his three kids. I spent the next 3 years – through high school – undercover – betraying my mother.

That’s what I mean when I say things left unresolved. Did I ever apologize to you, Mom? Did you ever apologize to me?

Six months before Mom’s death – we'll celebrate our final Christmas together – my brother and his family too – my sister noticeably absent. Mom is suffering. I see her – German-boned woman a shadow of herself. Picking food off her plate like a sparrow. As the rest of the family imbibed with voraciousness – champagne bottles emptied in celebration as we sedated ourselves – placated ourselves – just as we’d learned to do growing up.

But I could not anymore. Keep the secrets – the way my family needed me to. I tried for years to stuff them down. Then to get us help. Spent my adult life doing the work – therapists and shaman and EST – meditation and acts of contrition and programs to learn how to get my truth on the page.

The page listens. It's listening, now.

I booked an early flight home, that Christmas. Mom tried to talk me out of it – But Annie. She looked sad. I knew that she knew that I knew – what others might not. Mom and I – our love – tenuous at times – but unbreakable.

Raucous silence filled the space in the car. Anger, fear, sorrow ricocheted off my inner walls – voice trapped because I was afraid of what might come out – so much pent-up – if I opened my mouth.

She pulled up at Departures. Popped the trunk. I reached for my bag.

Long divorced from the music teacher – yes, I married him. And never ever remarried. I didn’t have kids. One abortion that Mom never knew about. About to turn 50. I would be returning to an empty, undecorated house. I didn’t want to leave – didn’t want her to leave.

Mom came around the car. I drew the handle out of my rolling bag, glancing at the asphalt, at my boots.

She reached out – grasped my shoulders and gave me a shake. Her grip firm as it always was - same strength with which she sent me off to the Peace Corps when I was 47.

I looked up, met her gray creased eyes – not easy to do. My diaphragm locked. I would not cry in front of her – never had been able to – willful eldest – mother’s confidante – wanted to be strong for her.

“Annie.” She gave me a squeeze, eyes watering, thinned hair framing her sallow face. Statuesque glamor queen – she hated that she looked that way and I did too.

“Yes, Mother,” I forced a smile, sucking in tears like an Electrolux vacuum.

“Annie, I want to say something. I want to say I’m sorry – I never was able to do what you asked me to do – to heal this family.” She stomped her neuropathic feet.

I nodded, feeling five, again and, voice muted, collapsed into her – wrapping my arms around her birdlike frame.

I swiped the tears off my face before drawing away. Grasping her shoulders, then, I smiled, weakly. “Thanks, Mom. We survived.”

I guided my roller-bag around. As the doors slid open I turned and waved. Then I rolled away.

I would return to Peoria in a few months to see to her peaceful death.

That tiny brave apology would stay with me – always.