Oh, it is true, my Mother is not an elf, or at least I think it is true. The thing is she is so tiny now, her hair unruly but her smile is so genuine and her eyes still sparkle. She is part Irish and oh so magical.
Last night she was able to carry on legitimate conversations. She giggled when I told her about what she has done with me the last few weeks. She sometimes is quite panicked about losing her memory but most times she is logical and philosophical about it saying there is nothing she can do about it so why worry about it. I remind her all the time she has her children who are remembering for her, keeping her house in order and making sure she is okay.
Last night we went to Hobby Lobby where I talked her out of buying more yarn. Before her arthritis wrecked her right hand she was an avid needle worker. Growing up she made most of our clothes, crocheted, knitted, quilted, embroidered, etc. She misses all that now. I bought her an ergonmic crochet hook set for Christmas and last night set it out on her kitchen table with some of her yarn ( she must have over 100 skeins tucked here and there in her big old house). I figured if she saw it she might pick it up and try to crochet a little. In a moment of rare insight last night she said she likes to tell herself tht she could still crochet if in the right mood but she is afraid of actually trying because then this comforting rationalization would be put to the test and might fail. As long as she doesn't try she can go on believing. I told her to try anyway and if she can't she can just chalk it up to a bad arthritis day. As it is she won't remember trying some minutes later. She laughed, bless her heart.
life is
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Today, as your Mom, my Aunt Marcella, would say...I set out to "visit the dead." With a front seat full of flowers and the clouds above my head, I stopped at four cemeteries.
I tend to cry or get teary eyed at the grave of James and Lillian Manahan, probably because Lillian's grave is unmarked and I have yet to save the money to get one for her. The story goes that she was rather unpleasant, but no one merits being buried in an unmarked grave, especially our great-grandmother.
When I was at Kathryne and Robert Manahan's graves today I cried for the first time. Mine were the only flowers there, an obvious sign that Aunt Marcella has not been and will not be there.
My father died in 2001 and was buried in the same cemetery, just a section over from the Manahans. On the day of his funeral (September 11) the one thing that brought a smile to my face that day was driving into the cemetery and seeing Aunt Marcella tending to her parents' graves before coming over to my father's burial.
I never have been one to visit graves until my daughter and I began researching our Family Tree, but now I go intermittently during the year...our ancestors are buried in beautiful places.
Although I don't make the trip every month like she did, it is my way of honoring Aunt Marcella by carrying on a tradition that she has been forced by Fate to discontinue.
Clouds hovered as I made my way from cemetery to cemetery, but as I left the last one, Mount Washington, the sun peaked through the clouds. Marsha
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