My Mother's Library

Having lost almost all ability to decipher printed words, my mother now pretends to read by flipping through magazines of large, colorful photos.  She thumbs through recently delivered National Geographic and Nebraska Life issues as soon as they arrive.  Dozens of old issues are stacked under an end table in the living room, and she pulls these out to scan, too.  My father calls it her “library,” which he re-stacks in the living room before going to bed. 

My mother removes the periodicals from the living room gradually so that by the end of the day, the previously-clean kitchen table is covered with magazines open to images she likes.  She picks out nature scenes, town celebrations, and advertisements, then leaves the pages open to show anyone who pauses to see what she is doing.  

She points to a yellow and orange sunset and nods her head.  

“Uh-huh,” she says, tapping the image with her index finger. “It’s nice.”

Over the past few years, she has received photo-books of our family for her to peruse.  One, in particular, elicits the same reaction from her each time see sees it.  It is a simple, 8x11 book with a plain, orange hardcover.  The photographs inside range from those taken recently to images of her and my father as young children.  One page is dedicated solely to their wedding photos, while several others show vacations, reunions, birthdays, graduations, and holidays.  

Out of the hundreds of images in the forty-page book, the one she dwells on the most is of my father, taken in the late 1970s.  He stands next to the opened trunk of a Honda and holds his new 35mm Cannon camera.  Forty-years younger and thinner, his face looks the same as he smiles directly at the camera taking his picture.  

Staring down at this image from her seat at the table, my mother thinks he is looking at her, and whenever she sees the image, she giggles.  Her fingers explore the photo as if they can somehow touch him.  

When “reading,” she usually looks through her magazines or a paperback publication of Nebraska scenery.  If she sees the orange cover, she laughs and takes a second to touch the front. 

“Ye-es, dad,” she snickers, remembering that photograph without seeing it.