Morning Coffee with My 92-year-old Mom
Uncovered stories.
By Carol Shamon
By Carol Shamon
Photo by Erik Witsoe on Unsplash
When I come to visit she always asks if I believe in life after death
I always tell her that I do and she always says that she wishes she did
but thinks there is nothing
Soon we slip into the stories
I’ve heard them many many times
but never remind her of this
The stories are slivers that have pierced her and as she digs them out
they appear golden
When my father bathed us as babies and mopped the kitchen floor
His beautiful death
How she told her ancient Mother that of course her money had not run out,
when of course it had years before
Her fat, stern uncle who turned out to be so kind and so wise
The one time she felt anger toward her Mother-in-law
Her Grandfather the rabbi stroking his long beard, the Grandmother
with her head covered, washing clothes with a washboard
The sunlit room with only our two voices
becomes a sanctuary
no mourner’s candles are needed
Each story is a door
Those we have loved and sometimes feared
silently enter and rise like the glittering dust
I always tell her that I do and she always says that she wishes she did
but thinks there is nothing
Soon we slip into the stories
I’ve heard them many many times
but never remind her of this
The stories are slivers that have pierced her and as she digs them out
they appear golden
When my father bathed us as babies and mopped the kitchen floor
His beautiful death
How she told her ancient Mother that of course her money had not run out,
when of course it had years before
Her fat, stern uncle who turned out to be so kind and so wise
The one time she felt anger toward her Mother-in-law
Her Grandfather the rabbi stroking his long beard, the Grandmother
with her head covered, washing clothes with a washboard
The sunlit room with only our two voices
becomes a sanctuary
no mourner’s candles are needed
Each story is a door
Those we have loved and sometimes feared
silently enter and rise like the glittering dust