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Every December 20th, my mother and I shared one perfect ritual: a giant Hershey’s bar, two coffees, the same park bench. She died in October. When I went alone for the first time, a man was already sitting there, holding a Hershey’s bar. He said, “Your mom kept a secret from you.”
The machines beside Mom’s bed hummed softly, steady and indifferent.
Then Mom cleared her throat.
“I think I made a mistake.”
I looked up.
I looked up.
Her face was pale against the pillow, her hair thinner than it had been two weeks ago.
“What kind of mistake?”
Her lips pressed together. She stared at the ceiling, as if the answer was written there in the water stains and fluorescent lights.
My chest tightened. “Mom?”
She turned her head
toward me.
Her eyes were tired, but calm… like she’d already made peace with something I didn’t know about.
“I need you to promise me something.”
My stomach did a somersault. We were entering dangerous territory now. I could feel it.
Promises you make in a hospital room to your dying mother aren’t the kind you break later.
“Promise what?”
dangerous territory now.
“That when the time comes, you’ll listen to your heart. Not your anger, not anyone else’s guilt, not even what you think I would’ve wanted. Do what you think is right.”
“You’re scaring me, Mom.”
She gave a faint smile. “I’m not trying to.”
What did she mean by “when the time comes”? What time? What choice was she preparing me for?
“Do what you
think is right.”
She closed her eyes.
For a moment, I thought she’d fallen asleep. Her breathing had that slow, shallow quality it got when the pain medication kicked in.
Then she opened them again and changed the subject completely.
“I don’t think I’m going to be able to do our Christmas ritual this year.”
The words hit harder than I expected.
The words hit harder
than I expected. Continue reading…
Continue READING
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