rapprochement: part three

It's the day after rain, rain so thick I was sure the air was a river, a flood moving from sky to ground, without heed for the damage water can occasion. Driving in my car was an act of levitation, my tires more often planing the wet freeway cement than securely spinning on the ground. But now, the sky is empty, but for the clouds that have yet to decide whether to stay put or rain to the ground. On my run this morning, I see leaves scuttle ahead of me--wide, sloppy maple fronds that lift with the wind, filling like sails on the reach. I speed up my stride, to see if I can out run the leaves, catch the wind, but always they flutter ahead of me, drawn on by the wind's invisible breath. Each time my shoes hit the cement, water streams up from the ground, feels like showers from a sprinkler, what my brothers and I use to do as children--running helter-skelter into the spray from Mom's backyard RainBird, screaming with each dousing as if this was water torture rather than heaven on a hot, sultry summer afternoon.

I've just picked the last of my garden--Leander and Queen Elizabeth roses, white anemones, purple monkshood, "hotlips" salvia. They look lovely, ornamental in their orange "California" vase, an anachronism of summer considering the weather we've been having. They'll be something to look forward to, something to welcome me home when I return tonight after seeing Mom.

Soon I will need to leave, to load up my car with ice chest (filled with an exorbitant amount of ice and one very cold Diet-Coke) and my carpet bag (literally made from a carpet and given to me by an East Indian-American friend of mine) where I bring with me the essentials--digital camera and extra batteries, note-taking paper, the day's newspaper (to read to Mom, including the day's crossword puzzle to share with Lorna) and a collection of poetry books (in case Mom wants to be read to) and three quarts of cold water. I bring the same thing every day, not ever knowing what I will need, what Mom may need from me. There's something comforting in this regime, suggesting that if I just get up each morning and do this very same thing, Mom will be there for me at the Mirabella, waiting. Without fail.

And soon, I will need to tell Mom what I have learned--that Peter's association with the Vineyard Church of North Phoenix is a matter of history. The information my cousin provided me with is three years old. I call to the church's directory reveals that Peter is no longer affiliated with the church. When I discover this I can't discern how I feel. Disappointment? Relief? Fear? Maybe all of these. But above all, I experience dread, knowing that Mom will be disappointed--so much seems to depend for her on finding my lost brother. It doesn't take me long to dial the number for the "Adult Group Home" associated with Peter's name. No one answers--it's Sunday morning and probably everyone is at church--but a message machine indicates that I have reached the number for "Steven and Linda Dixon." I don't hesitate one second before leaving a long winded message that I am desperately seeking Peter. "Will you hep me?" I implore. "Will you help me find my long lost brother?" I have no idea why Peter left or if there is any reason why "Steven and Linda' and the Vineyard Church would decide to help me or not. These are just words on a tape or symbols on a digital recording. I've left them there, on a stranger's phone, and there is nothing else I can do. Either they will call me back or not, help me or not. It's now in someone else's hands.

Rapprochement...to seek connection, to re-connect after separation. What I've been doing for a very long time.

Deeply, a mother;s daughter
--this is alifewithmom--