Motherconversating
by Denise Lewis Patrick
Osmosis…
I remember being buttoned into a sleeveless, white-dotted Swiss dress. My mother had sewn it, as she did most of my clothes. She was crying, heavily pregnant with my sister. We were minutes away from getting into a car as part of her grandmother’s funeral procession. Mommie had been her favorite; everyone knew that.
It was August, and probably very hot. We were both tense. But her sadness was one thing. My mix of confusion and fear was another. Before the white dress, my mother had distractedly strapped a thick Kotex pad between my legs. I don’t remember any words, only the tears. Maybe hers along with my own. I was 10 years old.
One-sided…
Sitting at the Sears Kenmore sewing machine, I am using a seam ripper to remove a puckered long sleeve from the dress I am making (for maybe the third time). Mommie sits patiently beside me. I’m frustrated, but somehow, I know I’ll get it right… eventually. Out of nowhere she says, in her regular calm voice: “I’m your mother, not your friend.”
Curious and curiouser, I think – because I never once thought of a mother being a friend, not like my best friends, Gail and Mary and Monica! It was a sort of declaration, not requesting or requiring any response. I still vividly remember that. I was about 12.
Revelation…
We’d all left home. I was married; my brother in the miliary; my sister in college. I’d called because I knew my father was out of town. Mommie was still teaching, so first I asked about her day. Then:
“What are you having for dinner?”
“Tea and toast.”
“What? But why…” My brain quickly ran through our delicious childhood meals—roasts, gravy, red beans and rice; cakes, pies—she’d made them all from scratch. Three kids, middle school math teacher, summertime seamstress, clubs, community stuff… I had a lightbulb moment.
“Mommie! You never even liked cooking, did you?”
“No.” Not even, Not really.
“Wow.” I was about 30.
Meeting of Minds…
We are standing together in my bedroom, staring at five pounds, fourteen ounces of sweet newborn boy. To my extreme surprise, Mommie has given up her summer teaching gig to spend three weeks with us.
“Does it ever get old, thinking ‘We made this!’?” I ask in wonder.
“It never does,” she answers. I am her first-born. I am 32.
Divergences…
The four sons had just returned from their month-long visit with my folks, immersed in as many aspects of Southern culture as my parents could conjure up.
“You gave them two breakfasts? Now they expect me to do it! Why?”
“Because they needed to eat light before swimming, and real food after!”
Once they retired, both parents came for moving-up ceremonies and graduations of every sort. Needless to say, during those lovely visits, it was useless attempting to assert even the weakest household superiority.
“Mommie, please stop. You don’t have to iron their t-shirts.”
“Well, they can’t be rough dry…where is that bag of unmatched socks?”
I did finally give up. I was in my 40s.
Sundowning…
My phone rang around eight, New York time. It’s Mommie’s evening caregiver, calling because Mommie can no longer use a phone. Daddy’s been gone about 10 years.
“Denise?”
“Yes, Mommie. Hi.”
Her voice lowers. “I needed to talk to somebody I can trust…”
“What is it?”
“How old am I?”
“You’re 85. Twenty years older than me…”
“Alright.”
I am shaken. I am 65.
Non-verbal…
I have cooked what I hoped she’d like. Her frown lets me know she didn’t. I am too rough. Her frown tells me that I am a poor excuse for a nurse. After seven weeks, I am leaving, completely exhausted and totally guilt-ridden. She grips my hand with more power than I expect and holds on tight. Drinks me into her eyes. I tell her I’ll be back in a few months.
I don’t make it. I am 66.
Transcendent…
A few days after my oldest son’s 36th birthday, he comes by the house.
“It’s so weird,” he says. “This is the first time in my life that I didn’t get a card from Grandma!”
“I know,” I say. We pause. In the moment, it doesn’t occur to me to think of the dozens upon dozens of conversations between Mommie and him, or between her and his three brothers. Between her and… anyone else.
I have been fixated on the silence. That new and uncomfortable mother-daughter silence. But I am discovering that motherconversating evolves beyond voice, looks, touch. It becomes interior. Internal. Eternally internal? I’m still adjusting. I am 68.
Denise Lewis Patrick is an author, poet, and essayist. She’s written over thirty books for young people, including fiction, historical fiction and biography, as well as the YA collection, A Matter of Souls. She’s also a contributor to the children’s anthology We Rise, We Resist, We Raise Our Voices. Her essays “Housecoats and Hairnets,” (Persimmontree) and “The First Boy,” (Herstry) have appeared online. After raising four adult sons, she and her husband are surprised and fascinated to have two young granddaughters. In addition to her current part-time gig as an adjunct writing instructor, she’s working on an adult story collection about characters in a small Louisiana town and a soap opera comic book featuring the cloth dolls she’s created.
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