CLAY AND WATTLES

Sunday...

I should be calling her instead of doing this, I thought. And the tears started, and I didn't know what to do with anything I picked up - keep it or throw it away, keep or discard, keep or... keep, keep, keep. I called Sher.

"What do I do with all these things?"

"What things? What are they?"

"The lists of medicines. Old bills and statements. Anything in her handwriting. What do I do with this Efferdent?"

"Throw the Efferdent away. You don't have to do anything with any of the other things right now. Just keep them. Sometime you and I can go through them."

Every tear from every memory I'd held in all week dripped out of my head, out of my nose, leaked from my eyes. Sinus, I thought. Oh, well, it'll just have to make a headache.

"This morning when I ate my leftover French toast, I wished I could be eating breakfast with you," I told her.

"You know," she said, "when I was eating my French toast this morning, I wished you were here with me - just to be here for a while, not on a quick trip, but to stay for a while. When you retire, I want you to come and stay a week."

"Well, when I retire, I'll come and stay as long as you'll have me!"

We haven't had any down time. We both went right back to work full force with all the deadlines racing toward us. We call each other sometimes two or three or more times a day. When we think of something Mama said or did. When we think of something that happened in the hospital. When we've had a bad day. When we need to laugh hysterically! When we want to tell each other what we had to eat! I know we have to have that connection - shared history, shared life when we were kids, shared memories of then and of the last couple of months. So we talked a long time, with her finishing cooking her dinner with one hand. ("Mama used to say she didn't know how I could do two or three things at one time," she said. "I know. She would tell me the same thing. I'd rattle dishes and pans and she'd ask me what I was doing. 'You and Sher are always doing two things at once,' Mama would say.") And me putting already bundled stacks of previously sorted envelopes and statements into a better-sized box.

She and I rang off after a long time - she to eat her salmon and me to go back to organizing. And I did get a lot done. The doorway is clear of boxes. Instead, now they are more consolidated and stacked beside the rocker Oscar sleeps in. But they are organized. (I'll bring my label maker from work and make labels before these go to storage or under the bed or wherever else I have room for them, and before I bring in the next several to go through.) I made pictures of all the sketches in Mama's sketch books. Most had only a half dozen or fewer pages, but it still took a while to do. I looked through every book and came across one sketch I had not seen before almost at the end of the book. I wonder who she is? Isn't she pretty? She was someone whom Mama cared enough about, or her looks, or the technique, that she took the time to draw her.

So, Mama, I did things for you today instead of getting to talk to you. I took care of things that meant something to you. But then, in a way, I did talk to you. You gave me another surprise today - this drawing, this girl. Thanks.

I love you, Mama.

I love you, too, Pat.