The Conversation

Dedicated to the memory of my Mama, whose conversations throughout my life guided me, entertained me, chastened me, and comforted me. I look forward to the day when we can pick up, right where we left off.

It was mid-afternoon one bleak November day. The house was quiet - everyone else was resting or out and about - the eye of the storm in what had become our daily routine.

I tiptoed into Mom's room and sidled up to her hospital bed, hoping she was awake. Relieved to find that she was, I sat down in the chair and pulled in close to her bedside. I offered her some water - she always seemed thirsty these days - then settled in to talk awhile.

I had watched and waited for this moment alone with her. I had things to say. Things I needed her to hear, even if she didn't fully understand. And I had not wanted any of my siblings around for this private conversation.

"You're the best mama in the whole world," I said, smiling bravely, echoing sentiments we'd shared in my childhood.

"Ohhh, I don't know about that," she rasped, her voice barely more than a whisper.

"Thanks for putting up with me all these years," I managed.

Seeing tears in my eyes, she placed her left hand - her good hand - on my right cheek. "Awwwww," was all she said.

I grasped her hand with mine, pressing it to my face, savoring its warmth against my skin. She was so fragile now, and I wanted to brand the memory of her into my brain.

"For singing to me and rocking me at night when I was a colicky baby and not throwing me out the window."

She grinned.

"For taking me out to see the snow when I was three and had the mumps. Do you remember that?"

She nodded.

"For taking me to look for may-apples in the woods on the farm. I don't know if you really believed they were there, or if you just wanted to give me something to do that summer. I wanted so much to believe there were really fairies living underneath them!"

She smiled and nodded, remembering that too.

"For figuring out how to make my favorite kind of pizza when I was a teenager. I think you just wanted to make sure I would eat something." I hadn't loved the pizza then, but I had loved that she wanted to do that for me.

"For always believing I could make something of myself," my tone turned solemn now, wistful.

"And you did!" she declared.

"Yes, I suppose I did. And thank you for the pride I always heard in your voice when you would tell your friends 'This is my daughter. She's a teacher!'"

"I am proud of you," she whispered.

I'd had her alert attention for nearly ten minutes, which was nothing common for her these days. It was as if God had pulled back the veil Parkinson's had dropped between us, and for a brief, shining moment, we had connected again as mother and daughter.

"Yep, the best mama in the world," I repeated, looking deep into her eyes. "I love you, Mama."

"I love you too, Baby." She smiled and closed her eyes.

I held her hand against my cheek for a few more moments, my tears flowing hot now. I watched as she drifted off to sleep, then tiptoed out of the room, fully knowing that I had just held the last real conversation I would ever have with my mother.