It’s Mother’s Day, and as I drink my coffee on the couch, in the bedroom above me the mother of the house clears her throat, coughs, rolls the covers from her chest, then swings her legs over the side of the bed, makes contact with the 2×6 tongue-in-groove floor that is also the ceiling above me, and pads across it to her desk at the window. As she does, the floor creaks, despite the best efforts of me and Don (who helped me lay it), ignoring the fact that pale yellow hints of construction adhesive urp out here and there along joist edges above me, not in many but in enough spots so that you can see that
A-We used construction adhesive everywhere, and
B-In spite of our best efforts, notwithstanding the fact that we carefully put but a single quarter to three-eighths inch bead on each four-inch-wide joist, some of that sunny goop inevitably squeezed itself into view to remind us that we alone are not in charge, that the Universe in all its physical manifestations follows inscrutable laws that operate well outside the bounds of our feeble, paltry knowing.
And above all this is the Mother. And She walks, and Her floor, which is our ceiling, creaks.
Mother’s Floor Creaks
2 responses to “Mother’s Floor Creaks”
-
Hi Andy! Mother. Creaking floor. Reminded me of something I wrote a while back…
Mark
***
My father died rather quickly.
But my mother’s decline took about two years.
So I experienced both kinds of loss – the shocking, sudden loss of my father, followed by the gradual, long goodbye, of my mother.
After Dad died, my mother became a kind of shadow of herself. All of her life she had played the piano – she played beautifully – sublime Chopin Ballades, Reveries by Grieg, Debussy’s Arabesques. But now the piano sat neglected. This, to me, was the clear sign that she had lost herself.
I would find her, sitting in the dark.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?”
“Oh,” she said, as if waking up… “I was sitting here, and it got dark.”
Fortunately, I had been laid off from a job teaching writing at UMASS – so I was able to collect unemployment checks and take care of her.
I became her nurse. I was with her 24/7.
When I took her out – either to a doctors visit, or to get her hair cut, or to go to the pharmacy – or maybe to get some groceries, I often said this phrase:
“Don’t forget your Cane”
To me, these four words encompass that whole period of my life.
There is a straightforwardness about these words. And yet they are words of care.
Straightforward words of care.
When you are caring for someone 24/7, there comes a straightforwardness that is both necessary and beautiful.
You have to get things done. And the thing that you are getting done, is care.
And the care is getting done because of love.
And this love is about the realest thing that exists in the world.
And this – this straightforward realness of love – this is a peculiar, centering kind of love.
When I cared for my mother at the end of her life, I learned this new way to love – this real, straightforward “don’t forget your cane” love.
-
Thank you, Mark, for all the ways you love.
LikeLike
Andy Davis, Storyteller 
Leave a reply to Mark M Koyama Cancel reply