mother

MOTHER
Mother is here again today, rugged up in her old winter coat with a scarf around her neck.
Her heavy old leather shoes shuffle about on the floorboards as she sweeps and dusts and
potters about.
She has brought another pie, pumpkin I think. She puts it in the old fridge where it will
molder along with the others till she cleans it out. She visits every week rain hail or
shine- as she's done since I first left home.
It is late fall, the day is cold and grey outside. I can hear the wind sighing under the
floorboards and through the vents under the eaves.
The cobwebs mother cannot reach blow in the breeze like tiny sails and hang in sooty
threads from the ceiling.
Mother is in the bathroom with a can of cleaner and a scrubbing brush, fighting a futile
battle with the mould and rust in the old tub which is more stubborn than she is. Paint
and plaster fall from the ceiling and the rusty old pipes drop their iron red dandruff into
the tub even as she scrubs.
Mother tells me the place would go to ruin without her. I should try to be more attentive.
Mother has always said such things, she will never change.

Mother is back in the kitchen now, vigorously scrubbing at the grime on the window
pane.
Pieces of old lead putty fall out, landing in the sink below from her effort.
She tells me I really should find the time to fix a few things around the house. It could
fall apart she says and I wouldn't care less, could I find a hammer and nails and fix the
shutters on the back of the house?
They were damaged in the storm last winter, or was it the winter before? They are
banging around out there in the wind on rusty hinges, grey with rot. Mother clucks her
tongue and shakes her tired old head and falls quiet busy with her work.
******************************************
The window is as clean as its ever going to be now. Mother returns to the sitting room
and plonks down on the horsehair couch. A plume of thick dust
rises up and a piece of rotted stuffing falls out of a hole in the side to lay along side the
dust bunnies on the floor.
Mother waves her hand infront of her to clear the dust, coughing and nodding sadly. Its
disgraceful she tells me, that a grown man can't look after things better than this. She
reminds me that the ivy has grown wild covering the entire south wall and that the
chimney needs reparing.
Its dangerous Kevin, she says, there'll be an accident one of these days. You ought to get
Mr Honeyset the plumber out to look at the pipes, the waters got rust in it. Its not good
for your health.
I tell her Mr Honeyset's been dead for twenty years but she cannot hear me. She is tired
and she sleeps awhile. 1 listen to her laboured breathing, it is very quiet. I will not wake
her.
1 wait whilst the hours pass. The wind sighs outside, the shutters bang occasionally. A
piece of ancient gyprock falls from the ceiling and dust rains down undisturbed. An
inquisitive mouse runs from a hole in the baseboard and investigates the fallen stuffing
before returning to its hole.
*********************************************
When mother wakes it is late afternoon. It is cold and the house is in deep gloom. Mother
rises slowly, her artheritis is painful in cold weather.
She shuffles off to the kitchen to get her handbag. She must be off now she tells me, she
will be back next week to see how I am.
She tells me to light a fire soon before it gets dark, there is kindling in the woodbox. She
pauses at the front door a moment. See you next week love. She closes the rickety front
door behind her as best she can and walks slowly down the path.
I watch her past the faded overgrown garden, past the old outhouse, long since fallen
down. Down past the gnarled old elm tree by the gate and then she is gone.
ili****************************;,!**!)!*!!;*************
The wind is blowing harder now. The red and gold leaves come parachuting down to
their rest on the ground below. A few fall on an
old cracked headstone obscured by the long grass.
It is worn and covered with lichens,faded by the years.
In Loving Memory of
Kevin .P. Waters
1952-1979
Beloved husband of Alma
Father of Brian and Leanne
Loving son of Marjory and John
R.I.P
Mother will be back next week. God willing. Meanwhile, I wait.

**********************************************
part2
I sense Mother coming long before she arrives.
Like a raw nerve, the senses of the spirit are not dulled by the flesh.I can feel her
artheritic pain as she walks.
Though it is mid winter and raining out she still comes each friday like the fabled
postman, rain, hail or shine.The winter wind cuts through her coat like a knife and chills
her brittle old bones.
How I wish I could take her grief away and put her mind at rest but alas, I am as
insubstantial as the dank air in this gloomy old house.
Mother does not know, especially now with her creeping dementia, that her grief and
reluctance to 'let go' tie me here like a ship at anchor.
Time is not the same for me since my death but somehow the memory of its experience
probes away within my mind like a tongue in the hole of a missing tooth, and it feels long
just the same, and lonely.
*^^**#*******=)s**************************
Here is Mother now, wind blown and tired, her umbrella blown inside out and dripping
as she forces her way through the old front door which jams in wet weather.
"Hello Kevin love, I've brought a nice cake"
And she has, it looks good and briefly I remember the pleasure of eating. She puts it on
the sink in the kitchen as she sets about fussing as usual.
A drop of water drips from the kitchen ceiling and falls on her face. She looks up and
see's the large water stain from where the water drips every time it rains.
"For heaven's sake Kev the roofs got a hole in it" she says and shuffles off to find
something to catch the drips.
*********************************************
Though I worry for her health it's good to have the company such as it is. In the eighteen
years since I died she has never failed to show up, but once, during a stint in hospital.
From the clouds her breath makes I can tell that it's exceptionally cold in the old house
today, I wonder if Mother will light the fire for the first time in so long.
Sure enough, when Mother returns from her task
she does just that.
"I'll light a nice fire love, or you'll catch your death of cold" she says. I smile at that,
it's a pity Mother can't see the irony of it.
She sets about with the kindling and soon has it blazing. It is like a ray of sunshine in this
dark house and I can almost fee! the warmth of it.
Mother warms her gnarled bony hands with pleasure.
Soon the fire is roaring in the grate and I am a bit concerned. The old chimney has seen
better days and I wonder if the mortar will stand up to the heat.

Mother gets behind the old couch, the only furniture in the room and heaving, pushes it
bit by bit nearer the fire. It sticks stubbornly a few times caught on buckled floorboards,
but Mother is determined.
Satisfied or simply out of'oomph' she plonks down on it and taking from her coat pocket
a small thermos, pours herself some tea. It's funny she should think of that given she can't
or will not remember I'm dead and the house abandoned, but dementia's like that.
"I remember when your father was alive......"
she launches into her usual one way conversations about long ago. I listen as she chats
away as though I were sitting next to her, careful to avoid pauses for the replies that a
part of her knows will not come.
The hours pass, the rain falls and the wind howls outside. Occasionally Mother adds
more wood to the already dangerously large fire. The warmth makes her sleepy and she
nods off. The fire crackles away now untended.
*****************************:!;***************
A knot in the wood explodes showering embers onto the floor and a burning log rolls out
of the grate. The embers are smoldering under the couch and the first tiny flame is born
with a column of smoke.
Mother sleeps on oblivious and I scream out into the silence unheard as smoke begins to
fill the room. There is nothing I can do. This is not right, not fair, not the way I would
ever want her to go. 1 am horrified.
The timbre around the fireplace and the mantle is old and rotten and highly combustable.
The heat is too much and the mantle burst's into flame.
Mother wake up ,get out! I scream but it is no good.
Flames lick up the wall and now the end of the couch is burning. The smoke is thick and
acrid, it must be seen outside, why don't they come?
I try to shake Mother awake, desperately willing my useless hands to be solid but they
pass through her like the wind. God please don't let this happen to her .please please I
bee.
A rotting lace curtain has caught fire and the flames race upward, the window cracks
with the intense heat. Mother, please wake up! In no time at ail the ceiling is ablaze and
bits of burning plaster fall all around.
A piece falls on Mothers shoulder and she wakes frightened and confused. Choking with
smoke and unable to rise quickly she cries out for me
"Kevin help me ..fire... so hot"
I'm here Mother get out now! I scream desperately.
*********** ********:1;**********************
T watch helpless and horrified as a heavy burning rafter crashes through the ceiling,
Mother watch out! but it is too late, it strikes Mothers shoulder knocking her back on the
couch.
If only she could make il to the door, such a short distance.......! will myself to be seen
with every fibre of my being and from the very depths of my spirit.
A shimmering outline of my hands appear in front of me, slowly spreading up my arms
..Mother look at me ,1'm here' For just a brief moment I am transparent but visible!
At that moment some tiny but powerful signal gets through Mothers fear and confusion
and she looks up.....and see's me! 1 see lucid recognition in her eyes and a beautiful smile
plays over her lips, such as I have not seen since chilhood.
She clutches her chest and her pale green eyes close for the last time as her dear old heart
tails still,but the smile remains.

The flames creep ever closer and the smoke obscures her tired old body. She is there no
more.
There is a brilliant blue Sight nearby and Mother is here, younger and more radiant than
she has been in years.
"Kevin? "
"Yes mum" I say embracing her
"Lets go home".
Now we are both free!