Mae Bell

It was Mother’s Day morning. I had gone over to her room looking for a Q-tip. I remembered she kept them in the top drawer of the chest, and that’s when I saw it. Lying there with her hand writing on it was an envelope from the funeral home. She had written her name and underneath it was the word, “funeral”. Exactly what was this? Perhaps some information left from my father’s burial. Or maybe it was his death certificate. I’d never seen it. My nosiness got the best of me and I just had to look. I opened the enticing envelope. What was inside threw me. There was a receipt for a funeral; casket selection, how many hours of viewing, headstone, reservation for two limousines. And though my gut had an unsettling feeling about what I’d find inside, there it was in black and white, “Funeral for... and the letters of my mother’s name.

I heard her coming back into her bedroom. I hurried to put things back as I’d found them. I had to fight back my tears. For at that moment I stood face to face with the reality of life without my mother. She was right there, still doing for everybody. She had been up since God only know what time, and had prepared not only breakfast but Sunday dinner as well, even though I’d told her we were going out after church. She was always busy. Taking care of everyone and making sure everyone was fed. Cleaning the house, out in the yard; she was still active at seventy-eight. But I’d noticed the evening before that her steps were shorter. She dragged her feet a little and she rested quite a bit. She kept the television on. To keep her company is what she would tell me. She was nearly always playing her DVDs of gospel music or her Bible on CD. Every night at eleven, she’d turn on the news; most of the time the news ended up watching her instead of her watching it because she nodded off.

I cried inside. I dared not let her see the tears. I’d have to explain my snooping in her things. I thought about the amazing mother I had. I thought about our neighbor that had the drinking problem but mother always opened the door for her and made sure she had something to eat. I thought of how she was the glue that held our family together. I thought of the grandchildren who cherished her very breath. I also thought about us, her children. Were we so unreliable with money that she had to make sure her burial was paid for up front? Then I pulled myself together, as we finished dressing for church.

I carried all of her things to the car, even though she insisted on carrying something. I wasn’t really found of going to my mother’s church anymore, because I felt I’d out grown it. But that day was different. I saw God there. I saw him in my mother. I heard her reading the scripture aloud in Sunday school class. A woman who’d only reach the fourth grade in her formal education, she read the scripture so well. I remember my nephew and I reading to her when we were young, how she’d make me pronounce the words over and over. I remember when I’d call her on the phone and how she’d, out of the blue, spell a word and ask me to pronounce it. God was good! He let us teach our mother to read better. The preacher even sounded different that day. Maybe it was because I wanted to know what my mother was getting out of it and was she really hearing the Word, so I listened more intently. You can always find God at home in his house, if indeed the house is one that honors him.

My grandmother was in the hospital. That afternoon my intention was to hurry over to the hospital, drop mother off and then head back down the interstate to my own church for evening worship. My mother, though she knew my plan, didn’t get in a rush though. She was hoping my brother was coming over to eat dinner. She made me call him to be sure. My niece and her husband had been parked in the yard waiting on us when we pulled up after church. Her sister, one of my many other nieces, was on the phone with her and questioning what time I’d be leaving. My mother had to make sure everyone had dinner. I knew my plans didn’t matter. I had to let my mother be her. She tried on the outfit I’d given her for mother’s day. She packed up her bag to take over to the hospital to spend the night. Then she took her time making sure she visited with everyone that was there. I had no intention on rushing her. After all it was mother’s day, she was entitled to do whatever pleased her.

All that day I knew I had to write about her, my mother. There was a story worth telling. She was a woman worth sharing. As I took a glimpse into what I’d seen over the years, the stories she’s told, the memories, good and bad she shared, I knew I had to write about her. She is my mother, but she’s so much more.