Over My Dead Body

         I wiped a runaway tear from my cheek and sighed. I still was trying to accept what had happened. One minute Mom had been whisked to the hospital the ambulance's shrill siren wailing, red lights flashing and the next she'd sat up on the gurney batting away an oxygen mask. Like so many episodes of the past, she had appeared to be knocking at Death's door. I heard her gasps for air. I witnessed her unresponsiveness and the grey pallour of her skin. How many lives did she have? Without thinking I corrected myself. According to my Mother she was the family cat. What an odd expression. Because of her aversion and allergy we had never shared a home with a feline.

         I must admit to breathing easier myself when the emergency doctor suggested Mom stay over night for observation. It couldn't hurt, or so both of us thought. I returned home believing I'd be retrieving her in the morning.

         Mom also was prone to say "I never dreamed in a million years" and then she'd fill in the blanks with whatever applied at a particular moment. I also heard "you could knock me over with a feather" too many times throughout my childhood. At the hospital the next morning my mind shuffled around in my shocked cortex and offered up both of these phrases jumbled together. I'd just been stunned to learn Mom had died. Never did I anticipate being informed of a parent's demise and especially one still very much alive the evening before. Only her words seared in my memory managed to surface.

         For some inexplicable reason echoes that resounded with Mom's voice repeated, "I could just spit nails."          

I shook my head and blinked several times. What did this have to do with the current tragedy, or anything for that matter? It's not as if I never challenged Mom when she spoke this. I had queried if she had ever in fact placed nails in her mouth. I knew for a fact she had never spit in my presence either. What did this even mean? As a child this image never ceased to cause me to chuckle. The figure who admonished me not to put so much as my fingers in my mouth crammed sharp, metallic, dirty nails in her mouth? Now had she been referring to finger nails this might have made sense. I did once believe the possibility of spitting nails to be a handy dandy skill. Pounding nails with a hammer always earned me bloody thumbs, so the ability to spit them and leave my hands tool-free? Yes please.

         Fast forward, spin and tumble more like it, and I stood quaking at Mom's gravesite. All eyes were straining to see the reveal of a headstone. Whispers floated and clothing rustled as we squirmed with impatience. Finally the moment arrived. Mom's pastor finished his mumbled prayers and the funeral director tugged at a canvas tarpaulin. As it pulled away the gasps began . Had these been the words I'd entrusted to the stone carver: OVER MY DEAD BODY ?

         I had spent days holding it whatever it was together. The dam burst and I howled, not with pent up anguish and tears, but with loud, spontaneous guffaws. I spluttered and swiped moisture from my eyes. Try as I might speaking proved impossible. Was this a divine sign from Mom? Did she die just to win and have the last laugh?

         So many of my requests and schemes had been stonewalled and out right thwarted by her emphatic "over my dead body." Here we mourners huddled over her final resting place and its surprising epitaph.

         The cat's out of the bag Mom. You do have a sense of humour. As I turned away I hunched my shoulders and snuck a peek at the sky. It couldn't hurt to be cautious. After all, you never tired of exclaiming "when pigs fly." (653 words )