Gliders, Sunglasses, and Stories

My mother and I sit in glider chairs on the patio while taking in the view of my parents’ back yard.  After a long winter, the grass has returned to green and the cottonwoods fully regained their leaves.   The temperature hangs in the 70’s while intermittent cloud-cover shields us from too much afternoon sun.  We sit just to sit, outside of the house, and enjoy the open air and signs of spring.  Through darkened sunglasses, we watch for the squirrels that pillage my father’s three birdfeeders; spotting them is now one of my mother’s favorite hobbies.  The furry-tailed rodents do not appear today, but the feeders are frequented by robins, starlings, and the occasional blackbird.

We choose to enjoy this spot because this is where my father goes to think and reflect.  My mother is increasingly using him to measure her own actions—she mimics him as a way of following “adult behavior” that she has forgotten.  Because he sits here to think, she sits here. 

The clouds mosey silently by, and somehow we begin discussing my mother’s trip to put flowers on family graves earlier in the week.    For over a decade she traveled to a small cemetery outside of her mother’s hometown to place Memorial Day flowers on the plot of earth her mother shares with her father.  She also added blossoms to the nearby headstones of her grandparents, aunts, and uncles. 

When she lost her ability to drive long distances, my father took her.  This time, she rode along with her aunt, Kay.  Her mother’s sister also dutifully made the yearly pilgrimage to the cemetery, and in previous years they typically met for lunch and reminisced about the past.

Today, she simply says that Kay took her to see the graves.  She rocks back and forth on the glider, but says nothing more.

Trying to hold up the conversation, I ask, “How is she doing?”

“Oh, good,” she replies.  Her chin juts out slightly as she ponders what to say next.  Apparently coming up with nothing, she nods her head and continues rocking. 

After a minute, I prompt, “Did you go out to lunch?”

She stops swinging and shakes her head.  “Yeah.”

“Where?”

Her lips fold over on each other and her right hand reflexively taps her chin.  She begins to work the glider again.

The squeak of her chair blends with the chirps of unseen sparrows and the hum of a distant lawnmower, and I soon forget about an answer.  My mind travels along the fence-line along the back of the property.  Out of the five houses my family has inhabited during my lifetime, this is the first to have fences around the back yard.  Though the yard is fairly good sized, sharing a property line with three neighboring houses adds an extra degree of closeness unlike any I have experienced before.  I wonder, do good fences make good neighbors?  Do chain-links work the same as tall, wooden planks?

“She told me a story I’d never heard before.”

My mother’s words cut through my thoughts like lightning on a clear day. 

“Huh?” my double-take asks as I wonder if I saw what I thought I saw or heard what I though I heard.  I twist completely sideways in my chair to face her, but she continues to rock, her face unchanging and the pace ever steady.

After a few hopeful minutes, I return my gaze to the fences, and then the birdfeeders, and then the clouds, and back to the fences.  My mother’s stare should have caught my attention, but I notice the silence of her glider first.

“She talked about grandma’s house when we were little,” she says, her voice clear and stronger than I have heard it for over a year.

“Oh?” I ask, cautiously prodding her to continue.  Her eyebrows arch above the rims of her shades, and through the darkened lenses I can almost make out her widening eyes.

Her words are slow and calculated as she tries to relay the conversation.  She gestures slightly with her right hand—first pressing it against her cheek, then palm upward in front of her, and then back to her cheek.

“When I was…you know…little…and we lived in town…one time I got mad and walked to grandma’s house…and didn’t tell anybody.  Grandma calmed me down…and called our house.” 

She pauses to chuckle and shake her head.  Her voice lifts a few notes as she drops her arms, “And Kay thought it was so funny that I got so mad I walked to Grandma’s house.” 

Suddenly, her hands leap from her lap like they are catching an imaginary vase, and she continues, “I’d never heard that story before!”  She smiles broadly and wags her head.

“Well, you certainly made an impression on her!” I tease as my mother’s enthusiasm spreads.

She sniffs in reply and once again starts rocking as the story plays through her mind.  Though I don’t know yet, this is the last story from her childhood that she will ever share with me.  I desperately want this glimmer of my mother’s personality to stay, but as the sun dips behind the house, her eyebrows lower and her smile fades.