StoryADay: "I Love You"

Right now I am having a great time writing Fiction. Fiction, of all things! Never in my wildest dreams had I considered it, but a friend posted an article on her feed about a StoryADay Challenge. I thought signing up for the challenge might broaden my horizons. The plots and words are coming at me faster than I can get them to the page. I would encourage any of you, if you like to write, or are thinking about writing, give it a try. Julie Duffy, speaker, writer and coach, challenged herself in 2010, and has asked others to join her ever since. She is quite encouraging and offers tips, resources and paid programs on her page. 

The challenge has motivated me to take my writing seriously (so has the absence of a paycheck), so I am committing to posting my usual stuff here every Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. (Public commitment is important in writer world; it provides accountability and keeps the writer on track.) On Saturdays, I'll be posting something from my foray into creative writing. Maybe even Fiction! With dialog! So, I hope you'll continue to stay tuned, and this being Saturday, I hope you enjoy the latest outcome of my StoryADay Challenge:

I Love You

"I love you," Mom said as I tucked her into bed. There was no sing-song, no extra syllables. It was clear as a bell. Of course, I know her reasons. Mom may not know who I am, but she knows I care for her. Mom is nice to anyone who gives her treats or makes her feel safe. And I do.

Tomorrow is supposed to be a beautiful day. Not too hot; the sun, not too overbearing. Mom and I will spend most of the day on the deck. She will whistle and chirp, and I will read and write. Her sounds don't seem to seep into my thoughts the way they do when we sit inside a still house.

I will make her snacks, and each time, as I come to her with a bowl or napkin, a smile will slowly spread across her face. Her normally vacant eyes will immediately fix themselves on the dainty in my hands. As she eats, she will sing a song of satisfaction.

Mom will spread her hands in the warm sun. She never complained of pain when she was able, so I'm not sure, but I feel with her the warmth seeping down into deep, achy places in her joints. From time to time she will look at her hands, as a child discovering them for the first time. "Look!" she'll say, and hold her hands up to me as though offended by the thinness and spots that corroborate her age. "Those hands are ninety years old," I will defend. "They have cooked a lot of Thanksgivings and ironed many white cotton ruffles." She will tilt her head, drop her eyes sadly, and nod. She's being polite, I think. How can she possibly remember? It's been years. Most days she thinks she's a child and I am her mother. If I leave the room a bit too long, she will look for me. Although, some days, "too long" can be less than the time it takes me to rise from my chair. She will begin to rise also, or her face will tighten into sadness and her sing-song will sound more like a whimper. Other days, I dash to the store, assuring her before I leave that I will not be long. I snatch items from the shelves and run through my list frantically. "Do I have a minute to stop in the post office? No," I answer myself, "I took too long looking for the right capers." I head straight home, load up every spare piece of flesh on my arm with groceries, and burst through the door, only to be met with vacant eyes. She wasn't searching, she wasn't alarmed, she never knew I was gone.

When the sun begins to warm the canopy over the deck, Mom will be more comfortable. Her sing-songs and whistles will cease; her head will drop to her chest, and she will nap. I will read and write with nothing but the buzz of bees and the song of birds drifting off into the clouds. Mom will startle herself awake now and again; she will raise her head to see if I was watching. "Are you okay?" I will ask. She will nod and close her eyes.

It was on Mom's eighty-fifth birthday she came to live with us. She needed care and protection; I wanted her to thrive. I diffused oils as she slept. I searched recipes and explored the health benefits of certain foods. I hopped aboard the "organic train." I played all types of music; Mom would tap her foot and, sometimes, even sing, but could she thrive? Her illness --whatever it is-- wouldn't hear of it. It was taking her down and would stop at nothing to do it. But Mom is a fighter. Anyone whose made it past ninety is a fighter, I would say.

By four o'clock, most of the sun will have disappeared behind the houses further down our row. The canopy above will still be warm, but the air will have begun to cool. Mom will begin to get agitated. The evening will come soon and her body can sense it. It is time to go inside. "Don't forget your sunglasses there, Hollywood!" I will say as gangly legs and large fuzzy slippers take their first steps into the shadowy house. She will sit at the table, watching for glimpses of me as I move through the kitchen making dinner. She will pick up her cup over and over, each time disgusted by the fact it contains only water. She will pick at lint, and sweep teeny-tiny crumbs off onto the floor, and "whisper" to the dog, and tap endlessly on the table. The sickness is taking over more and more of her as the night creeps closer.

At bedtime, I will say it is time. The cat will spring to life, waiting for his chance to sneak into her room, and Mom will agree she is tired. I will get her ready, and fluff her pillows, and she will fix socks and pick lint and put her slippers just so, like a child worn out from the day but reluctant to be alone. "Goodnight, Mom," I will say, giving her a kiss on the forehead. "I love you."

And she might just say, "I love you," too.