May 27, 2014--Ladies of Forest Trace: What's Left?

When I answered the phone, I heard my mother sigh.

"Soon, it will be another year."

"You mean, another birthday?"

"What kind of future do I have?"

"In truth, Mom, you've been saying that for years. Many years. Since before you turned 100 and here you are only a month away from 106. Amazing."

"For you maybe amazing . . . For me, too much." As she has recently, she sounded breathless.

"I admit, I've thought about that too. After all . . ."

"I have no time for after-alls."

"So, what's on your mind?" I wanted to distract her from thinking about aging and the inevitable.

"You tell me to distract myself," she said, as if knowing my intentions, "To listen to music, to watch the TV . . . to read the paper, to do my puzzle . . . to call the family. And when I do those things . . . it makes it only worse. Pavarotti is wonderful but makes me sad because wonderful makes me sad . . . And the puzzle I can no longer do without reminding me how much I don't know about . . . Forty-one across, from today's, 'Schoolmarmish sound?' You think not knowing this makes me happy? Distracted?"

"Mom, I can hear you trying to catch your breath. Please, you shouldn't overstress yourself. You need to remain calm. For your heart. None of this is important and it's making you sick."

"To you maybe it's not important . . . To me, it's my life."

I couldn't think what to say. I understood. She was right. It was, it has become her life.

"So what is it, darling?"

"What is what?"

"Forty-one across?"

"Oh, the puzzle. How many letters?"

"Six."

"Do you have any?"

"It ends with a K. About that I am sure . . . I should only be sure about anything else."

"This is a hard one."

"I'm working on it now. I think it starts with a T."

"T and K," I said, literally not having a clue.

"This I should know. For 40 years I was a schoolmarm. A teacher. First grade."

"And a wonderful one at that." I was happy we were talking about something other than mortality and catastrophes.

"TS," she said, a T and an S are the first two letters because 33 down is LOANSHARK. I like that one." She was sounding playful.

"I'm still stumped."

"I too was but not now--it's TSKTSK. Isn't that a good one? Though as a teacher . . . I never said that."

"Good for you Mom. I don't know how many 106-year-olds can do the New York Times crossword puzzle."

"And in ink. Though with my arthritis I can barely hold the pen."

"Your handwriting is still better than mine."

"So, as I was saying," the distraction was over, "on CNN and in the Herald . . . what do I see?" She paused, I thought to catch her breath. "Tell me, what do I see?"

"I suppose . . ." I stammered.

"Fires . . .  Arizona is burning down. Killings . . . Those beautiful little girls in Africa. More killings . . . By crazy people in California. Fighting . . . Did you see what they are doing to my beautiful Odessa? We had family there before they took them away."

From that memory I thought I could hear her beginning softly to cry.

"And our veterans . . . Isn't today their day?"

It was in fact Memorial Day. I was happy to see she was still keeping track of such things.

"It's a shonda, what they are doing to those poor boys."

"I've been following that too. It's what you say. Disgraceful."

"Worse than that . . . Criminal."

"I agree."

"They cry, the politicians, alligator tears about the veterans . . . call them 'heroes,' which they are, and then treat them this way. Making them beg for what they deserve and were promised . . . Even Wolf on TV is upset. He says many have been dying who shouldn't."

"The good news, Mom, is that . . ."

"You're doing that distracting business again." I was please to again hear her tone lighten.

"I am," I confessed. "It's what I advise you to do. In fact, all of us need distractions. To think only about sad things makes . . ."

"I know what it makes, but I can't help myself . . . That's the way I am . . . Always looking for the dark lining."

I couldn't disagree. She is prone to that, but to try to buck her up and to distract me from her reality, I said, "You have to try to look on the bright side of things." I knew I was speaking in clichés.

Hushed, she asked, "For me, what's left?"

"As I said, no one knows. About you or any of us." As gently as I could, I said, "Ten minutes. Ten years. It's all unknowable."

"Now you sound like me." She, I was happy to hear, between breaths, chuckled.

"And no matter how much time you have, any of us have, there are things to look forward to, to feel good about."

"Give me a for-instance . . . Tell me something good."

"Well, there are young people in your life who love and care about you."

"Me? I only know old people."

"That's not true. You may live mainly with older people but there are your grandchildren and your many nieces and nephews."

"A few."

"No, many. They call you, they write you notes to tell you what you mean to them. Don't you remember what Shelly wrote to you, from Africa where she is working?"

"Shelly?"

"Yes, your sister Yetta's daughter."

"She is wonderful and does such good work . . . With poor people."

"She sent it to me as an email and I have it here. A printout, which I was about to mail to you."

"She wrote to me?"

"Yes, I told you about that."

"Now I can't even remember my own nieces . . . But they are all darlings."

"Fran wrote--

I am thinking about her at the age I am now and recall how she expressed her affection through a singularity of attention that I was not used to."

"About me this is?"

"Yes, she is looking back, remembering you more nearly 50 years ago. Let me read you the rest--

She recalled the names and ages of my children and took pleasure from their small accomplishments. I remember how being on the receiving end of our family's excessive concern was like getting a wet kiss on my 12 year-old cheek. An annoying intrusion but comforting reminder that I belonged."

"I didn't mean . . . to be annoying."

"I know that. She knows that. She's being playful, which is the way she is, but most important she wants to remind you that through your concern and love you reminded her that she belonged in our family."

"Of course she did . . . Belong. She was such a darling child."

"So you see, you still have a lot to live for. You're not just waiting for . . ."

"I know what I'm waiting for."

I took a chance and asked, "Waiting for what?"

"Like I said . . . for what's left."

"Which is?"

"The things you say and reminded me about . . . And other things too."

"Now I'm interested in a for-instance."

"Things in the world to get better."

She was becoming very short of breath, but still I asked, "For instance?"

"Maybe the Pope . . . will be able to help." She had never mentioned a Pope before. "And for Hillary. You know . . . two of my sisters were . . .  Sufferers."

"Suffragettes."

"Yes, however you say it. And couldn't vote . . . But now . . . this is something, no?"

"Hillary Clinton?

"Yes. And everyone . . . can go to the same school and drink the same water. . .  That's good too."

"The list is long of things that have changed."

"It's still long . . . Maybe I'll see . . . Maybe that's what's left."