A Legacy Project

Mid morning my mother is sitting on a dining room chair. It’s one of the spare chairs in their set, made of dark wood, with rattan back and a soft green velvet cushion, placed away from the table, kept handy in case of company. She’s wearing a blue dress with long sleeves, dressed for the funeral. She is crying.

Behind her is their bookcase, with a set of both World Book and Britannica encyclopedias, in them all the knowledge anyone would ever need. Also a few high school yearbooks from my brother’s and my years in high school, and a few popular titles in cloth and paperback. Lying on its side is the family Bible and some inspirational books about faith. Next to these books is a framed photo of my mother with her brothers and sister, the sister, my Aunt Jean, long dead. She is smiling and should be older, obviously photoshopped into the group. In a few minutes we’ll get in the car and drive 50 minutes north to West Branch, where my nephew’s funeral will take place.

After the accident, there was the hospital vigil. We waited two days for him to wake up. We took turns talking to him. We picked up his hand, held it, and set it down. We clung to each other. We tried to hope. Now my mother, holding a crumpled tissue in her hands folded in her lap, is alone in the room, letting grief come. By herself like this, she looks small, desolate. 

My father walks in the house from the garage and into the dining room. He’s wearing his suit and a tie. I hear the car engine idling as the screen door slowly shuts behind him. He stands over my mother, realizing. 

He says, “Oh honey.”

She doesn’t look up. She turns the tissue over in her hand and raises it to her face.

Oh honey, don’t do this, I think he means. She’s breaking and he can’t reach her and we have to go. He’s trying to manage the situation. He’s going to drive the car, he’s going to take us there and bring us safely home. “Honey?” he says.

Across the room I sit next to my wife on the sofa and take her hand. I’ve never seen my mother cry like this. My father knows not to touch her. She doesn’t want comfort. There is no comfort.

Dad, I think, let’s not go just yet. I want her to have this. I want her to let go. She needs it. Let us sit here a few minutes longer.