Mother Tree

“I can’t believe people are waiting that long to see her. I mean…it’s not even open casket.” Such is an Irish woman’s take on just how ridiculous waiting 24 hours in a line to pay respects to the Queen is. “I bet they don’t even give out a Mass card as a souvenir” I said to her. “I bet they don’t.” she acknowledged. Mom has been saving Mass cards from people’s wakes since her mother died in 1947. It’s a very warped Irish version of baseball card collecting that I have a hard time explaining to anyone who doesn’t get extreme Irish culture. Wakes are as much a celebration as they are mournful, it’s that simple.

Mom came back last Sunday and shuffled in to her new and improved home, complete with a first floor bedroom and a dining room where her living room used to be. Lucky for me, my sisters had already prepped her for all of this but this was the first reveal. My brother and I had scurried around all morning trying to make things look just right. We knew that Mary Paul would not be satisfied with a hodge podge bedroom that looked like a former dining room. This room had to look as though no one had ever dared to break bread within its walls. Although the curtains we had hung for privacy purposes were a little less than soundproof, we were quite proud of the result. More importantly-Mammy (as she has been called all my life) was too. She actually liked the look of the new bedroom. Can you say whew?

“What kind of bed is this?!?” Dad said the second night he went to bed in his new digs. Mom and I laughed because he has a way of saying things when he’s incredulous that is just so funny. He’ll notice when something is off about you and say something like “what the heck is on your face?” when I do a face mask or something. This new bedroom was only acceptable to Dad because it had Mom in it. Had we tried to move him prior to her coming home it wouldn’t have gone as smoothly. I think there is a lot to be learned about symbiosis by watching these two coexist. How fortunate I am to see it up close.

This weekend, Thomas and I were able to get away as my brother stepped in to hold down the fort. “Oh, so you’re the one babysitting us?” Mom said to him as I prepared to leave. “He’s here to make sure you don’t go back to Shady Pines, Ma.” I said either out loud or in my head, sometimes I’m not sure. Then, I tripped on a welcome mat when I came back in for my sunglasses which was my neck’s payment for making such a snarky remark. I drove away in silence with an ice pack on my neck, nursing an injury that has been present since my stupid self decided to jump into the Saco River from a rock back in August. “I’m old” I said to Mom. “Well if you’re old then I should be dead.” Mom said. Touché, Mary. Touché.

Two weeks ago, as the paramedics carried Mom down the stairs into the ambulance, I wondered if that were going to be my last memory of her. She was just so sick and weak, I didn’t think she had the resources within to fight whatever she was facing. She is a “tank” but tanks can run out of gas and she is no exception to that. This one felt different to me and I said as much to my siblings. When I visited her a few days later and she told me that she was getting out of there and “not feet first” I breathed a sigh of relief. Although I am a grown woman living and dealing with adult responsibilities, I have to say that I will always be very much a child. I read a little about an arborist’s search for the “mother tree” today and I identified immediately with what she wrote. The mother tree, it is said, communicates to all the other trees in a way that is beyond our comprehension as sentient beings. She, Mom, is a force among all the humans she knows and, for me, will always be that one we look to. I hope to one day understand exactly what that is she has or why it is she has it. For now, I’ll simply continue on admiring what she does. A true redwood among cypress, we have much to absorb from her.