I'm sitting in one of the many waiting rooms/lobbies of Morton Plant hospital in Clearwater, Florida. My mom, whose 92nd birthday was celebrated by some of her children yesterday. we celebrated it for her since she has been in and out of a coma for a couple of days now. Mom is dying. Her breath is short right now. Her eyes are open just a little but sees nothing. She is pale and the setting sun through the hospital window draws deeper lines on her face.
She lived a long fruitful life, brought four children into this world, finally getting it right with me, her youngest. She had a blissful, too short first marriage to a tall blond man with an impossibly big smile. Bob's smile was wiped from his face when his B-24 was shot down over Austria during another lifetime. She then went on to a tortured, long marriage to a clinically depressed man who hated himself almost as much as he hated those who wanted to love him. That guy was Art, my father.
My mom was a giver, a provider and taught us to carry into our worlds the best parts of herself. I have spoken to one of my brothers at length about growing up in our house, how we are proud to emulate the best my mother could teach us and how we both took very different roads in our lives trying not to repeat our father's tragic mistakes. Jack chose to raise a family who would never question that their parents would love them. I chose not to raise a family at all. Cynical? Yeah, but it left me ways to offer love and support to family in different ways.
The sun fades across her face as her life fades away from her
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