love to be that girl

"I'd love to go back," Mom says, "Love to be that...that...girl."

I'm holding up a framed 8x10 photo of Mom and her sister, Marguerite, and Mom is pointing her finger at a lovely young girl who's Mom at a young age. While Mom can remember her dress--lavender with a print--she's not sure how old she is in the sepia photo. My guess is about twelve. Nevertheless, we try to figure out Mom's age by talking about Marguerite--was she living at home when the photo was taken, was she married, where was she working? I ask her when Marguerite married--"1938," I suggest? Mom's not sure but she's convinced Marguerite was still living at home and, while this appears helpful, it really isn't because, as it turns out, Marguerite lived at home for the duration of her college experience, a fact which I didn't know prior to today. Mom lived at home too, except for her last year at the UW when she was required to live in her sorority house because she's the newly-elected president. Marguerite could be anywhere from age 17 or 18 to age 22. Mom is 8 years younger. Before I can deduce anything further about Mom's age, she slips into confusion, asking me--"when did you get married?" "1994," I tell her, as if this has any bearing on the question of Mom's own age at the time of the photo.

When I look at the photo, I see two sisters, softened by a sweetness I can't remember in myself at that age. There's something unknowing about these faces, unworldly, as if life is about constant blessings rather than misgivings. To know that just a few short years later their mother, Berentina, would unexpectedly die adds a jarring footnote, something that could not have been foreseen in their demeanor.

Mom's comment that she'd like to "be that girl" fascinates me, so I ask her--"Would you really want to go back to that age?"

"Yes," Mom answers without hesitation.

"But there'd be all that pain to go through--the depression, the war, your mother dying, your father dying, Dad dying, Peter leaving...you'd really want to do that all again?"

Mom doesn't say anything in response, so I add--"And you'd be without the wisdom you've gained." When Mom frowns at my statement, I explain--you know, one of those compensations for growing old....that we are presumably smarter about ourselves, about life...we know what we are all about."

This is something that has always fascinated me, people who can say, for example, how they wish they were twenty-five again, or wish they were in high school again, as if this going back in time would be the panacea for all present ills. In fact, it would just mean going through life's lessons a second time. Hmm...perhaps there's be a benefit in this?

Mom's version of going back in time is to live the lovely things and forget all the rest, the ways that life knocks you upside down. Mom's an optimist, I'm a realist. There's a lot of ground between us.

Dinner comes--"Carved Ham w/ Maple Glaze, Steamed Broccoli, Mashed Potatoes." There's no conversation while Mulu quickly forks the ham and potatoes into Mom's only-half-open mouth. Dinner is done in less than ten minutes. Mom eats 30% of her meal, 100% of her ice cream.

"What do you want to do about Peter?" I ask Mom after the dinner fixings are carried away. I've been wanting to ask her this for days, ever since my girlfriend, Lora, procured Peter's address and phone number. I've still got the the letter Mom "dictated" weeks ago, a short missive that asks him to contact her because "she's got things to say" to him.

Mom's response is uncharacteristically clear--"We've got nothing to talk about."

I'm surprised by Mom's answer, as this is not the same woman who weeks ago sobbed to me that I must "find her son."

"Bad history," she then adds.

"Why did you change your mind, Mom?" I ask her.

"Can't cover," she says, "you know...the years."

"True," I say, "but at least we could connect now, in the present."

Quickly Mom shakes her head "No" and adds--"Two people who hate us."

Mom's argument seems to be--why place ourselves in the middle of that? My brother Peter and his wife, Susan, are definitely not our fans. Mom's logic is hard to dispute.

"I just want to be sure I'm doing what you want Mom," I tell her.

Mom nods and then adds--"You can...if you want....but not...you know...not for me."

To myself I'm thinking, whether she wants it or not Peter will have to be contacted if a legal action is required to protect Mom. One way or the other Peter will return, it's just a matter of when...what circumstances. The thought of this is chilling.

Deeply, a mother's daughter
--this is a lifewithmom--