[Critique Group 1] Marcia's April submission

[Marcia Wick]

Down to the Wire

Marcia J. Wick

April 2023

Word Count:  492

 

 

As a school girl, I recounted my sins in the confessional-I fought with my
brothers and sisters six times, I disobeyed my parents nine times, I lied
five times. Truth was, I padded the lies to account for under-counting the
number of times I disobeyed my parents. Call it creative accounting.

Over my lifetime, the times I disappointed my parents were too numerous to
tally. A baby boomer, a rebel, a wanna-be hippie, I tested their patience
and fortitude for decades. 

The gravity of my transgressions escalated during high school. I confessed
directly to God so the poor priest wouldn't have to grapple with the future
of my soul. 

"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.I drank too much Boone's Farm Apple
wine and vomited behind a bush on school property; I smoked marijuana during
our senior skip day-and liked it; I slept with my boyfriend, but I consulted
Planned Parenthood before indulging." 

Since God didn't strike me down for my offenses, what my parents didn't know
wouldn't hurt them.

Once I reached adulthood, Mom and Dad were forced to endure my
wrongdoings--retribution was beyond their reach. It pained them when I
divorced two times and married again, the third time to a Jewish man who
introduced me to Buddhism. Surely, I would burn in hell. My father prayed at
our unconventional wedding to the Christian God on our behalf. Never one to
hedge my bets, I figured it couldn't hurt.

Between marriages and moves across the country, the distance between our
viewpoints widened. When we reconnected for holidays or family reunions, our
spirited debates sparked heated disagreements. Words regretted couldn't be
recalled. 

Dad and Mom lived well into their nineties, none the worse for wear.
Forgiveness and forgetfulness settled the dust from stormy days. Water
muddied by tears ran clear under the bridge spanning time. Diminished vision
and dementia softened the sharp edges. Ultimately, happy memories rose to
the top like champagne bubbles to blunt the pain.

Reconciliation, after decades of wrongdoing, came down to the wire. 

My mother took a fall and suffered a head injury. For three weeks, her
health declined while her family resisted the reality that she wouldn't
recover. Of course, we all hoped for a miracle. Alone at her hospital
bedside, I promised Mom we would cease interventions and bring her home
under hospice care. Promise kept. Hours later, she succumbed in comfort at
home with our dear old Dad by her side.

When Dad's hour came, his bedroom was over-crowded with children and
grandchildren, clergy, caregivers, and neighbors. When the volume of voices
in denial became intrusive, I suggested the vigil migrate to the living
room. Kneeling by Dad's bedside with only the hospice nurse as a witness, I
held my father's hand. Thank you, he seemed to whisper as he sighed his
final breath in peace.

Despite a lifetime of remorse, I managed to redeem myself at the end.

 

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