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Eleanor’s Mother – by Valerie
Brown-Kuchera
Runner-Up
Sometimes in the middle of the night, when the pain is really hard, and
I am so scared of dying, I wish I were home with her.
These people come in, and they talk nice, and try to ease me. I
appreciate it and all, but when the hall lights shine through the doorway, just
for a second, I always think I am back with her – my momma.
Imagine that. Me, an 80-year-old woman! Oh, how I remember lying there,
a little scared girl, wishing she would come in. And sure enough, the darkness
of my room would be lit for a moment from the hall, and there would be her
pretty, pretty silhouette framed by my bedroom door.
How did she always know when I needed her to come in? Mamma used to
curl up behind me at night when I was a child. I think they call it spooning?
And she would wrap her arms around my tummy. I just fit there, in the
curve of her. I could feel her heart beat at my back, and I could feel her
breath – she would breathe just as if I was her air, deep and at the base of my
neck. Like she needed a nightly dose of me just to survive another moment.
She would whisper, “My sweet girl, my sweet baby girl,” in a chokey
kind of voice, just like she was holding back tears. But she didn’t hold them
back too well, because more times than not, I would feel my neck and hair
getting wet.
And back then, I thought maybe she was sad, but she never acted sad
during the day. Not in the least. She was always smiling, always loving me up,
telling me what a pretty, sweet girl I was. Hugging me and telling me I was
worth every minute of the wait.
But now I know she was crying because she had to squeeze out tears of
love, because there just wasn’t room in her heart for all that love for me. It
just had to come out, and it did. It did.
Almost every night she held me like that, until I got to where I
thought I was too big to be lying there in bed, nights, with my mamma holding
me. I would get embarrassed and say, “Maaaammmma! Please. Can’t we just say
goodnight like normal people do?”
Oh, Mamma was such a sweetheart. She’d say, “of course we can, darling.
You’re just such a big girl now.” And she’d peck me on the forehead, and stroke
my cheek quickly. Wish I could say she went to the next room to hold my baby
brother or sister, but I was an only child.
She’d say, “Love you, baby girl.” And she’d shut out the light. And you
know what? After she had gone, I would lie there and imagine she was holding
me. I’d wish I hadn’t said anything, because then I would get to thinking that
more than likely, when I perceived she was breathing me in for her own strength’s
sake, she was actually giving me a
piece of her incredible self. Wish I would have told her that. Wish, wish.
What did I do to deserve a mamma like her? How did I get to have such a
beautiful, sweet person that loved me more than she loved the idea of heaven?
Throughout my life, I’ve been loved by others – best friends, and a
couple of really, really good men. But the kind of love that my mamma had for
me …
Well, there has never been anything to come within a mile of that.
I thought I was too big for it back when I was 12 or so, but I’m not
too big for it now. When the light comes through the door in this place, and
the people come in to check on me, sometimes I even say out loud, “Mamma?”
Oh I know those people think I’ve gone senile. But there’s nothing more
that I can do to keep her alive than say her name. My sweet Mamma. My sweet,
sweet mamma.
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