I climbed into bed wearing a thin cotton nightgown from the closet. The bed was soft and the sheets freshly laundered; an old familiar comforter cradled me like a baby. I opened my book as mother stared at the TV. I never know if she really is seeing what she is watching. She cannot speak. Her left arm and leg are tight against her body and the left side of her face is twisted like a stubborn coiled wire. Her right hand clutches a rosary. After reading a few pages I shut off the light, fluff my pillow and curl up next to mom. She shifts her eyes down and to the left. I look up to her and am glad I insist on dying her hair as it was when I was younger, black, shiny and wavy as a cured olive from Sicily. She is still very beautiful. Her lips are full and her chiseled cheek bones compliment a stately nose and dark wide eyes. Her slight facial deformity does not diminish her organic royal beauty. As I lift my leg up and over both of hers, I hug her tight. She feels my smile. I know I would never caress her like this if she was well; if she did not depend upon me for meals, for mobility, for comfort. I know my HAVING to do for her changes our roles, urges me to be the nurturer. Don’t the strong and the healthy need nurturing too?
“Remember when I was a young girl”? I ask. “You would be in here, reading a book, a rosary always by your side. Those books always seemed so big and intimidating to me. You would call my name, softly, “Madelina?” “I would say, ‘yeah ma?’ "I'd be on my way to my room. I’d feel bad about ignoring you so I’d always turn around and open your door easily. You were always so much softer than me, more graceful, more reserved. I always felt a bit harsh around you like a bull in a china shop. Then, you’d ask, ‘How are you, chicken?’ 'O.K.' I’d mutter, wanting to get back to my radio and telephone calls to my girlfriends. ‘Why don’t you get ready for bed and come in here and read with me’, you’d say. ‘Oh ma, I have so much to do, maybe later’ and after a quick peck on the cheek, you’d smile and brush my hair back.” I was always willing to bring you a cup of tea and biscotti, a tissue, a pillow or a some warm chestnuts. I thought that was good of me, nice of me, enough."
“I’m here now Ma. I love you. I wish I had cuddled with you then and discussed books and life. I wish I would have known how life wouldn't wait for me, how important …I can talk now, and you can listen. I hope you understand me and agree with my opinions and reviews of these books I read to you. I wonder if I’ll never be able to make it up to you. I wonder if I am what you wished for, hoped for, wanted."
She moans and shakes her head. She looks anxious. “I know you understand. I know you like our time together now. I hope your as comfortable as you can be.
Madelina thinks about pain and distress. She blots the saliva that trickles down her mother's chin, tucks the covers around her and adjusts the small pillow under her knees. She re-wraps herself about her. Madelina thinks: "my mother, my friend, my foundation".
As they closed their eyes, Madelina realized life’s revelations are never appreciated on time. She hears the nightingale singing and the leaves of the trees rustle with the wind. October is her favorite month of the year.
She wakes up and finds herself alone. Another dream. Another wish that she’d have said and done certain things. She picks up her book and lays it on the empty pillow next to her. She holds the glowing light green rosary beads. She says a silent prayer and then aloud, “Ma, I hope you can hear me. I hope you know how much I loved you”.
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