Ask the Questions

Sweet Memory

“From the almanac of last things
I choose the spider lily
for the grace of its brief
blossom, though I myself
fear brevity

but I choose The Song of Songs
because the flesh
of those pomegranates
has survived
all the frost of dogma.

I choose January with its chill
lessons of patience and despair and
August, too sun-struck for lessons.
I choose a thimbleful of red wine
to make my heart race,

then another to help me
sleep. From the almanac
of last things, I choose you,
as I have done before.
And I choose evening

because the light clinging
to the window
is at its most reflective
just as it is ready
to go out.”
Linda Paston (“Almanac of Lost Things”)

The last rose of summer was clinging to a spindly branch of the largest of Mother’s weather beaten roses. It was white, the color of winter, and tiny. I carefully snipped it and floated it in a glass of water so that I could contemplate its quiet perfection. Mother's yard had been denuded by an overzealous yardman, who decided in the middle of a July heat-wave that the time had come to prune everything back to the ground. Now there were only stumps of fifty-year-old azaleas and camellias. The roses were somehow spared the carnage. With the first frost, I would cut them back, too, but not to the ground. Mother cried when she first saw her yard after the de-flowering. “They will grow back,” I said and she responded, “Yes, but I will never see them bloom again.” The truth of it made me want to use the clippers on that yardman—but all I did was yell at him to never come back.

In the last days of my mother's life I had a million questions that she would not answer. Was she sad, did she have regrets, what was her favorite time in her long life? Mother was not given to reminiscence. When I asked her questions about the past, she told me, “Oh, Jane, I can’t remember. It was so long ago.” I had begun writing stories from memory about our first years in Morganton. For me, there had been too much change—fourth grade in three different schools. Daddy was drunk and then in rehab; we moved and moved again. Mother didn’t remember much about it. She did, however, remember whiskey bottles falling from behind the furniture when the movers came. She chuckled a little at that memory, but didn't want to talk about it.

Perhaps she was right. Some things are best forgotten. I’m on my own when it comes to filling in the blanks. I waited too long to ask the questions. I hope you will not do that. Ask your questions now, while memories are clear, and stories can be told. My mother and I made some new memories in our last year together. I taught her how to do Sudoku puzzles! I, who couldn’t do a crossword if my life depended on it, taught her, a life-long puzzler, how to do Sudoku! We completed two together, and when I talked to her later, she’d done three more! She was happy. That's a good memory. Maybe it really doesn’t matter what happened to me in the 4th grade. Maybe what matters most is what is happening right now.

In the Spirit,
Jane