‘HELLO’, ‘GOODBYE’, ETC.

My sister, Josie, called me too late. I couldn’t catch a morning flight to Norfolk. The snow had upset all flights in and out of Laguardia. I was able to get on standby for a 5 p.m. flight and lo and behold, one ‘no show’, and I was on it, in Norfolk by 8:30. Josie was waiting for me at the luggage area even though I had none. My stay was to be short simply to attend my Aunt Mollie’s funeral and console my mother as best I could and return to N.Y. It took not much more than a minute before I realized I had made a big mistake and should have been prepared to stay in Norfolk for an undetermined time.

My mother was in Josie’s living room on a large brown leather chair. Her feet were raised on the foot rest. She looked comfortable. As I walked towards her I extended my arms and said, ‘Hi, Mom. Glad to see you.’ She looked at me, smiled her still beautiful smile and said, ‘Hello’, turned her head and looked out the window. ‘Mom, is that all you can say? How about a hug?’ Her brow furrowed. ‘Do I know you? What’s your name?’ she asked. Josie had told me two months ago that Mom was going downhill and suggested I come to visit soon. I meant to go but had more important things to take care of. Now a noose tightened around my throat. I could barely swallow. ‘Mom, it’s me. David, your son. David.’ This 65 year old lady needed time to remember me. I waited. ‘Yes, David, yes. I know you. Do you have a sister?’ ‘Mom, Josie who takes care of you, whose house you are in, is my sister, your daughter. She just brought me in to see you.’ Mom drifts away.

I gently take her hand and she looks at me. ‘What do you want, David?’ ‘Tomorrow Josie, you and I are going to Aunt Mollie’s funeral. Do you remember your sister, Mollie?’ I see a photo of my mom and Aunt Mollie on the end table. It goes back too many years. ‘Mom, this is your sister Mollie 25 years ago. ‘ She looks at it and tears cloud her blue eyes but she says nothing.

Josie brings her sassafrases tea and coffee for herself and me, plus a heavy blue cardigan sweater she had knitted for Mom. ‘Mom gets testy. ‘You don’t have to help me put on the sweater, young lady. I made it didn’t I?’ ‘You sure did make it Mom and it fits you perfectly. Are you ready to go to your sister’s funeral? She would want you to come.’ Mom takes one more sip of the already too cool tea, stands erect and gets the sweater on and correctly closes all the buttons except the top one.

I sit in the back with Mom. Josie drives. She knows the funeral parlor direction too well. We are the first mourners there and are directed to the family room. ‘Isn’t this a lovely room, David?’ I am surprised and pleased she called me by name. Mom continues. Pointing to a green striped chair, she winks at me and says, ‘I’m going to get Dad a chair like that the next time we re-furnish the house. Don’t tell him.’ I ache for her, for myself, for Josie who has seen this coming on but held back its fast advances.

Family I don’t know, others I slightly remember, three cousins with whom I do business over the internet and cell come into the family room, pay respects and go to sit in the chapel. Mom calls a few by name. Mostly she sits and stares into space, thinking of what? The room empties. Josie, Mom, I sit in the front pew. The chapel is only half filled. There is no loud sobbing. The rabbi tells a few stories about Mom’s life that he learned when he visited Josie’s last night. It is a decent eulogy. When it is over, he makes synagogue announcements as well as memorial prayer times for my aunt. He starts to leave.

My mother touches my arm and stands. ‘Not yet, Mom. Sit down.’ She pays no attention to me, With her eyes almost closed, she straightens her skirt and walks to the podium. Not a soul moves, not even Josie or I. Mom looks at the casket covered flowers, the baskets of lilies and roses on the side, and moves closer to the mike. ‘Ladies,’ she begins. Did you see all these lovely flowers? They are beautiful, aren’t they? But my sister can’t see them. She loved flowers. We used to pick them in the park when we were very little. Daddy punished us because it was against the law to pick them.’ That was all she wanted to say. I brought her back to her seat and couldn’t help but kiss her cheek.

The limo, followed by a short procession of cars, reached the cemetery in 20 minutes. Short prayers were recited before everyone returned to Josie’s house for a catered simple lunch buffet.

The dining and living rooms are empty except for Mom sitting on the brown leather chair with the foot rest up, just the way I found her yesterday. She is holding the photo of her sister and herself that had been on the end table. ‘Mister,’ she says to me. ‘I forgot your name. Look at this picture of my sister, Mollie. It’s an old one. I don’t recognize the lady next to her. Do you?

That opened my tear ducts as wide as they go. Josie and I hugged Mom. She didn’t hug us back.