85 Mays

May 7, 2005

My 59th May 7. Her 85th.

     This May, and the more recent ones, harvested fewer signs of new life than expected for the last month of the season. The hope of spring, or of anything, spoke less audibly in the haze of Mamma’s out-of-rhythm heart.
I was headed to Demopolis to see the live rendition of “To Kill a Mockingbird” in the actual courtroom of movie fame. It was to be my first viewing of this traditional yearly performance and I’d gotten tickets months ago, the day they went on sale. I stopped en route from Birmingham in Montgomery to check on Mamma and found her slumped in her chair saying, ‘Missie, I just don’t feel good.” I could see it. Her breathing labored for each quick intake of oxygen and left her exhausted in the effort.

Too weak to walk, she stayed on her sofa while my sister-in-law and I prepared her things and called the ambulance. It arrived promptly with two amicable attendants ready to assist.
The trip to Harper Lee’s town quickly faded into perhaps another future season as my trip re-routed to Jackson’s Hospital. That spring, that May belonged to my mother. Her humor remained as she said to me, “I guess I’m going to kick the bucket,” when the doctors announced pneumonia as a fateful diagnosis and complication in the already present heart arrhythmia.

I'll remember her last few days on earth as a group of the most difficult of any seasons to date. She wanted to hang on for a few more Mays, a few more seasons, for what reason I don’t know. Depression smothered her and blanketed her countenance with remorse over lost beauty, love, youth, and a child. Her mind held tightly to life with acuity, except for allowing her the reality of her own impermanence.

In a moment of melancholic pleasure, I wish to bring Mamma to a safe harbor with sprawling roots of truth and ease. Had she ever known a sanctuary at all? She has been dead for several years, but realistically, she was absent for much longer and I truly, deeply miss her and always have.