Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 142866 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 714(@200wpm)___ 571(@250wpm)___ 476(@300wpm)
But I’m here.
“Mama,” I say, keeping my voice low and even. “It’s late. Come on to bed.”
“Bed?” She whirls around, brows furrowed with worry, one of her rollers slipping from a curl. “I can’t. Your daddy still ain’t back. I told him not to go get me that ice cream.”
Her features soften into affection. “You know how he gets, though. He was determined I’d have that ice cream before bed. He’s been gone for what seems like hours, though.”
More and more, the present is becoming a foreign, fractured world of strangers. The past is familiar. The love of her life is there, alive and hale. Whole. Frozen in their best days. Is it selfish to keep trying to drag her back here? Are we the comfort? Or are we the ghosts? Having seen that fresh devastation in her eyes, I’ll never tell her again. The truth is not the most important thing. Her peace is.
“He’ll be back, Mama.”
At my words, her frightened eyes do a slow slide from the empty street beyond the window and over to me. “He will?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I approach and slip my elbow through the crook of hers. “I’m thinking while we wait, maybe we should watch a movie or something.”
“A movie? We haven’t done that in a long time.” Her expression brightens, but she searches my face as if for confirmation. “Have we?”
“No, you’re right. We haven’t.” I guide us into the living room and settle Mama on the couch.
Mama still has a DVD player because she always insisted she’d need it to play her favorite movies. I blow the dust off the technological relic and rummage through the basket of discs she always keeps close by until I find the one I’m looking for.
“Sister Act!” I grin triumphantly and hold up the tattered disc.
“Two?” Mama asks suspiciously.
“The first one is better,” I say, smiling at our old argument. “You know that.”
“But the second one has L. Boogie.”
My seventy-five-year-old mother calling Lauryn Hill “L. Boogie” has me cackling, but I just nod and slip the disc in. As usual, when we reach Lauryn’s solo, “His Eye Is on the Sparrow,” Mama hums along. We both do. As the credits roll, Mama turns to me, staring at my profile long enough that I’m forced to turn and meet her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“You see that poem right there?” She nods to the opposite wall where “Footprints” has hung for as long as I can remember. It’s always been one of Mama’s favorites.
“Of course.” I shift to settle more comfortably against the cushions. “What about it?”
“You ever really read it?”
I glance from her to the wall, allowing my eyes to skim the familiar stanzas. “Sure. I mean, not in a long time, but I know it. The person says they see two sets of footprints, but at the lowest times of their life, it’s just one set.”
“Right, and they ask God why He left when things were hardest.”
“Yeah, I know it almost by heart,” I say wryly.
“I read it now and think about it differently.” She swallows and fiddles with one of her Velcro rollers. “When I look at those disappearing footsteps now, I see us.”
“Us?” My brows pinch into a frown. “You and me?”
“I’m the one vanishing, Hen.” She breathes out shakily. “I’m scared of the day when my body is still here, but I’m gone for good. I mean in my mind, gone for good.”
“You are here.” I cup her jaw, urging her to look at me. “You’re here with me, Mama, and I’m gonna take care of you. You hear me?”
Silence greets my question, but after a few seconds, she nods, a single tear streaking down her cheek. I swipe it away with my thumb and pull her close.
“I’m not going anywhere, Mama. When those footsteps disappear, that’s me carrying you. I will never leave you alone or in the dark by yourself. Okay?”
She offers a shaky smile and leans into my arm, her head dropping to my shoulder. I force myself not to move, but sorrow and determination and gratitude and resentment and a thousand disparate emotions war inside me. While I choke back my own tears, Mama slides down until her head rests in my lap.
“John,” she whispers in a troubled sleep, a few of the rollers in her hair dislodging when she turns her head fitfully. “He home yet? I told him not to… didn’t need that ice cream.”
It’s astounding how obstinately her mind clings to certain things and lets the rest float away. I squeeze my eyes shut, but silent, hot tears scorch my face. That damn ice cream. That night is suffused with could’ve beens and never should’ves, the hours that her mind circles over and over again searching for a different outcome. One where the love of her life is here. That night is a door that stays cracked open; one that deprived her of one last kiss. Of a final farewell. And in the fog of her memories, that door remains ajar.