[Critique Group 1] Passing Time for Group 1 critique

[Marcia Wick]

Passing Time

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

Copyright September 2017

Word Count:  435

 

 

 

A video screen popped up when I clicked on a link to an Alzheimer's article.
Annoyed, I hunted for the control to skip ahead while the clip began
playing. Forced to listen, I soon became fixated. 

 

Two women are laying side-by-side on what appears to be a nursing home bed.
I am captivated by their conversation; the cozy scene tears at my heart.
The adult daughter might have been me, the elderly mother with Alzheimer's
might well have been mine, except for the fact that my mother and I have
never once shared an intimate moments like the one I was witnessing on my
laptop. 

 

Fascinated, I watched, feeling as if I was spying on a private conversation
through a peephole. Jealous, I beheld an exchange of love unlike any I have
ever known, nor ever I will.

 

"Do you know you're my momma?" the younger woman asks.

 

The mother giggles, confused as to who is whose momma. "I'll be your momma,"
she offers.

 

I marvel at their nearness and familiarity. My mother has always been averse
to forming close relationships. She is distant with everyone, not just me; I
claim that fact as consolation. I am the fourth of six children. Perhaps
there wasn't time for warm embraces. She favored the boys, they could do no
wrong, but Mom did not confide in any one of us. Was she keeping a secret?
Did something traumatic happen to her as a child prior to her marriage and
family?  Our mom grew up with loving parents and every advantage, so far as
we knew. What turned her love inward, forcing out only bitterness and anger?


 

I am soothed as I listen to the mother and daughter continue chatting. 

 

"Do you know who I am," the daughter prompts again.

 

The old woman hesitates, trying to recall her daughter's name.

 

"Well, didn't I name you?" she asks. "So, I'm loving' you," she adds.

 

"And I'm lovin' you at the same time," the daughter replies.

 

They laugh and meet eyes, expressing delight at the shared wonder of love. 

 

How now, after more than 60 years of distance, can I expect to experience a
moment so precious with my mother?  We have never been near. I can't even
recall sitting on her lap as a child. It is painful to observe; these women
who are strangers to me have what I want. 

 

No longer conscious of the day on the calendar, my mother is now in her 90s.
The time for closeness for this mother and daughter has passed.

 

I reach for the phone, eager to call my own daughter.

 

 

 

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