Parking, Peeking and Popping In

My mother, my muse, has moved on (…moved up?) but nothing has physically changed in her apartment next door. I find myself living in this weird space where it feels like my deceased mother is just wintering in Florida, per usual. While the family takes the necessary t…i…m.…e to make the necessary decisions, her apartment is like a shrine; with the exception of the removal of obvious debris and doodads, her home looks exactly as it did when she passed last June.

During this transitional time, my husband thought it wise to turn a light on in Mom’s living room to deter pesky, unwanted criminals. Within days of this illumination, I realized I had to pull the plug. Each time I drove into my driveway, I’d see her light on and was reminded of what I’d lost.

The only thing separating our houses is a 12 foot wide driveway; the view into Mom’s first floor apartment from my kitchen or car has always been crystal clear, providing me with real-time observational information about her activities, virtually any hour of the day. At her table in the morning, she’d surely be reading the Globe or portioning pills… At noon, it was safe to assume she’d be assembling a seafood salad sandwich in her kitchen… Evening time, her tuffet of gray hair, barely visible over the top of the couch, was confirmation of her installation in front of her TV.  

Although being able to predict Mom’s every move through my clandestine surveillance brought me comfort, there were many times when I employed stealth avoidance techniques as well… times I’d pull into the driveway and park just so, strategically situated between her two living room windows so as not to be detected from her table, kitchen or couch, not because I didn’t want to see her, but because I didn’t want to see her right then… times I’d anticipate that she would neeeed me to do, or be, something for her in that particular moment… times when I was focused on my own agenda but knew I’d see her later.  

My subversive doings often resulted in a thimbleful of guilt, but not in any way the fault of Mom who, when she did catch sight of me, more often than not would just smile and wave, or raise her coffee cup in a gesture of morning joy. By the time I entered my house, I’d realize I had just wasted an unnecessary amount of emotional energy worrying, anticipating, expecting, and assuming she’d need something from me… I’d put words into her mouth that she never said, and thoughts into her head that she never had… She was totally okay without me, thank you very much.  

But, there were also post-parking instances when I’d peek through Mom’s window and find her hunched over, head in hands, looking weary or worried with watery eyes… times when I’d understand, with no uncertainty, that she actually did need me to do or be something for her in that moment… times when I realized that my simple attendance to her nominal needs could change the course of her day, that I could lessen her 92 year old load just by popping in.

I miss those days… I miss Mom.