Until Now

When I was nine years old I overheard my mother's mother say, "Mind you, I'm not afraid to change places, I'm not even afraid to die. I just don't know how to do either one. No one has given me permission."

My grandmother's stout frame, embraced with hand-embroidered throw pillows, had seldom moved one inch off the floral, tufted couch . Her throne. Her bouffant hair, the only thing left intact of her former self, had been ratted to resemble a yellowish-white crown.

Deprived of life's finer qualities, other than being fed, diapered and having her crown washed, I had concluded my grandmother could not get from here to there, wherever there might be, unless someone assisted her. To me, Grandmother had always been older than God. As for my mother? Well, she had oft times switched roles: One day a Goddess, the next a . . .

As it was, I had supposed my grandmother had always been old. Her crackled voice and weathered skin had said so. Her white hair had said so. Those silly sized dot-to-dot freckles covering my grandmother's body from head to toe had said so. Her blue eyes, fogged over with a ghostlike whitish film, had quietly told me I heard right.

By the time I had reached the age of twelve, I had found it necessary to condition myself to have both of their strong, black coffees ready to pour into personal mugs the instant morning light flooded the kitchen or the Princess of Darkness, that being my mother, would rule the day.

"Since when do grownups, as old as Grams, need someone else's okay? " I had asked my mother, but not before she had downed her second cup of coffee. "You' ll understand when you are older," had been her only reply. Mother must have forgotten how important it was, especially for a person like me, to puzzle-out things. Ninety-one years later, it still is.

One such piece of that particular puzzle had clearly fit into place. I can see how mother and daughter relationships intertwine. They are like whimsical, spinning gyroscopes that form an invisible cord. Oh, I will grant you that there are always those few who effectively resist when either one attempts to turn in their own direction. Usually resulting in "guilt-trips". For some unfortunates, these tendencies to be controlled, or to control others, are hand-me-downs. To this very day, for me, hand-me-downs are not acceptable. They are nothing more or less than wasteful byproducts passed along from generation to generation. Internalized fear. Illusion!

No sense in dwelling on prestidigitation. Let us fast forward to a different subject: Time.

You must know that Einstein bent time and Dali painted melted clocks. Right? Then you will give me some credit for being suspect that time is also as illusionary as fear? Thank you.

For all intents and purposes, I stopped looking at clocks sometime ago. Therefore, I'm sorry to say, I don't know how much time is left before my final departure. And because no one has been considerate enough to tell me, I have decided to refrain from going into related histrionics, deliberate displays of emotion for pure cause and effect. I'll even skip the full disclosure of when my mother had to take my grandmother's driving privileges away without having been given permission. Talk about difficult. . .

When it had come time for me to do the same thing with my mother, that she had done with hers', it had plugged into night-mare-ridden childhood fears of losing her-- most likely because I never really had her.