Story: They Talked About Everything, Except What Mattered

He and his elderly mother talked about the weather, about the food in the retirement home, about remembering Dad--they talked about everything, except what mattered.

As she closed in on ninety, their morning phone calls went from discussions to something else. She started asking questions, just questions. After a few minutes of conversation she ran out of steam, and about all she could say would be “What else?” They ended up talking about every topic except the ones which mattered.

Her putting the electric kettle on the stove and turning the stove burner on, that was what mattered. Her forgetting when his wife was flying back and asking him three times in five minutes when she was returning, that was what mattered. Her telling him she had to pick up some pain killers and hemorrhoid cream because she had run out but no she still had some but it was not important and he did not have to worry about it she did not even know why she brought it up she had been up all night with irritable bowel syndrome and she woke up with a runny discharge from her nose every morning did he have a runny discharge in the morning so don’t worry about the pain killers she could do it herself she’ll take a cab, and he reminded her it was winter and too icy for her walker so he said he would pick it up, but she said it was not a problem she did not even know why she had brought it up she can just take a cab and get it with her walker and when he said they could deliver it she asked why he said that was he trying to make her feel guilty and besides she did not think they delivered pain killers but he should not worry and he should stop asking her how many painkillers she had left what did that have to do with anything she was not sure she had none no maybe she had a few left why was he getting so upset and what does he mean he has done this before he has never done this before.
And then he told her it was his mistake. They talked about his mistake, but not about what mattered.

At moments she cried, told him she was losing it and wondering what was becoming of her. She saw the end of her life every morning. She saw herself petering out as half-remembered thoughts in a retirement warehouse.

They talked about everything, except what mattered.

How could they talk about that?

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Poem: Life Under the Magnifying Glass

Each day we talk on the phone.

She asks what I did yesterday

am doing today, will do tomorrow.

Then, forgetting, asks again.

The endless repeating details are torture.

She is 90.

She does not remember, it is not her fault.

Her sisters are gone, most of her friends.

She has no one left to talk to

nothing left to talk about

but me

every conversation, over and over

me.

I want my privacy back

I want my life back

but that is selfish, so I suck it back

and we talk about me, back to back.

Like an ant under a magnifying glass,

feeling the heat of the focused sun

that is how I feel

fair or unfair does not matter.

Her questions are love

and love always includes

the risk of being burned.

Story: Ghost

His mother had always been there for him, and later in life he was there for her. By the time she turned eighty-nine she was easily confused. She was there but not there. It was the same body, the same voice, but it was not her. Being with her felt like babysitting, and that was when parts of her began to fade away.

As she heard less of what he said her ears faded away. She did not seem to notice. Although her missing ears alarmed him he said nothing. When a conversation longer than a minute became a chore for her if she had to do more than ask questions, her lips faded. She could only speak at length about the past or the retirement community she lived in.

As she increasingly used a walker, her legs faded. Trips out became carefully planned affairs. She had the energy to visit a store or have dinner, but rarely both, and sometimes she got confused and did not want to go out at all.

It was a nightmare, losing her piece by piece. He increasingly felt he was visiting a ghost. Even her eyes were buried behind thick glasses, and when he reached out and touched her hand, it felt cold.

But he continued to visit because she needed him and he loved her, or the memory of her. Most often he took her on drives through the old neighborhood while they spoke of people long dead. She liked that.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net