My Mother's Legacy

     Although it was a bit late,  I decided to call my mother last night. "I have nothing new to tell you.  Everything's okay here.  No news is good news.  It's the same old story", my mother said.  "It's a good story, Ma.  Nothing is new here either.  I'll call you in the morning.  I love you.  Good night, Ma", I replied.  "I love you, too, dear", she answered in turn.  I hated to hang up the phone.  I was so happy to hear her sounding so calm since she has been so miserable and frightened for the past week and more.  I'm sure she had no idea my heart was breaking. She didn't know what I knew.

     Before speaking with her, my brother had called to tell me that her move to the Memory Unit is scheduled for today.

     During that earlier conversation, my brother and I seemed to be speaking at each other rather than with each other.  He was focused on the logistics of the move.  I wanted to talk about our feelings.  Against my better judgement, I warily tacked into uncharted waters.  I had been thinking about something odd, and wanted his opinion.  My mother has had no trouble recalling my name, his name, or my step-sister's name (someone she rarely sees).  Perhaps she kept forgetting my step-father's name, and sometimes his very existence, because she was enraged at what she perceived as his abandonment of her.

     I hoped he would give some thought to my idea.  However, my brother summarily rejected my hypothesis and, moreover, my "psychoanalytic take on things". Feeling wounded, my reply was instantaneous and rather bitter.  I heard myself reacting the same way my mother used to react to me when I had said something with which she didn't agree.  "End of conversation", I said.  But I regrouped and tried to salvage our tenuous connection.  The rest of our talk revolved around a less controversial subject, my niece, the heart of my brother's life. The call ended pleasantly enough.  My mother's legacy is not destined for the Memory Unit.