She Flies

We attend church with my mother almost every Sunday, and even though she no longer understands most of the service, we sit in the balcony so she can see everything happening at the altar. When we arrive in the parking lot, my mother follows us, her face tense from the uncertainty of where we are going while her eyes scan the hazards waiting on the pavement (ice patches, other cars, rain…). 

She has been a Methodist all of her life, and we attend the traditional service earlier in the morning because the songs are familiar. Even when she loses the words and can no longer read the music, she sings, making up the lyrics as the congregation carries the tune.  When the choir sings special music, she tries to stand up and join in. McKenzie and I sit on either side of her and put our hands on her shoulders to keep her still.  Even while sitting, she hums along to their hymns anyway (another reason we prefer the balcony).

When the service ends, she bolts from the pew and tries to follow my father down the steps.  McKenzie and I corral her long enough to maneuver her arms into a coat, especially when the temperature is still below freezing outside.  Full of energy, she attempts to race down the stairs from the balcony, even when we grip her hand to keep her stable.  Mother is so excited that she misses the final step on three separate occasions, falling to her hands and knees.  Amid the horrified gasps of nearby congregants, she bounces upright within seconds, smiling at everyone who is watching; and not an embarrassed I’m so clumsy grin, but a broad I’m okay! What a great day! smile, sometimes followed by a hearty laugh. 

After we realize Mother has apparently forgotten about gravity, one of us holds her by the arm while another pulls on the back of her coat like a harness as we descend the staircase after each service.  She seems to have no fear stepping into thin air, as if her feet will be carried on the musical notes she hums after service.  This feeling of lightness is noticeable as she easily strolls across the parking lot, still smiling.  I hold onto hope that some Sunday her walk will break into skipping as, for the slightest of moments, her brain lets her legs feel as free as her heart.