Matins

My mother was with me, in the chill of the morning kitchen. She often does cruise through, when my mind is lazily gathering itself to rearrange letters in the Jumble or to stop re-reading comics I haven't understood. Morning, dark and early, is when my mind feels like dozens of pointless helium balloons, bumping into one another, glancing off to bump again. This morning, her visit felt malevolent.

Usually, I'm sucker-punched by some painful memory of failing to understand her needs. I spent decades failing to understand her needs. In the end, we came a little closer - at least, we started to understand that everything was code or verbal shorthand. She needed us to know what she wanted because she didn't. Couldn't or wouldn't, it hardly matters. She wanted my sister and me to be the best daughters ever and we were only averagely okay.

Well, my sister was more than okay. My sister, living a mere 16 miles away from Mom, was driven to keep her entertained and involved with the world of the living.They went to concerts and plays, to dinner where the earlybird special was salmon, to elegant teas and shoe stores. Mom slowly, politely, drifted away, getting closer and closer to friends who had left the mortal coil as she got further and further from us.

A typical morning bit of mother-pain will be occasioned by something as stupid as Rush Limbaugh being quoted in the morning paper. My Mom Hated Rush Limbaugh. She - somehow - listened to him and absolutely despised him. I had never known her to take against anything (except cheese, which she loathed for awhile, as her hormones adjusted to aging, and then liked again more than almost any food) with such gleeful venom. So, alright, so stupid stuff (and I do count RL in that genre) makes me miss her. Makes me wish I'd understood better.

Why was this morning's visit tinged with malice? Why did the dog poop in the hall? Why did the cat drink from my water glass? Why is not the question. What does she want is closer. My best guess is she's warning me not to be unkind. Point taken.