3/16/2012
The early morning darkness, a left over from the time change, gave way to a glint of sun, then a full-out encompassing rays. As we stepped inside 1419, I was overwhelmed by the light, illuminating the scooped line of trim work above the parlor, the bricked in transom over the south-facing kitchen entry, and my state of mind.
If one can journey on a ray of light, then today I had. For the past weeks had been a journey downward, inward, one filled with anxiety over my parents’ health, was I doing enough, would it ever be enough? Had I helped them onto a mistaken path?
For in this fresh light, I saw a different path. One filled with less regret and more acceptance. There really are stages for grief, even of the anticipatory type. When my parents moved, I filled their days with lunches and groceries, and filled my head with notions of them being active, involved and social. Six months passed, a few holidays and a few falls by my dad later, and I see them now where they are, coasting.
I am a pusher. Of life. When one has watched life being taken from you, you hold on to the rest. You decide you will not give up so easily. You push, you cajole, you move forward. My days of running hurdles in junior high came in handy for this mindset. I live by it always, and sometimes stumble on the tenth hurdle and have to remove myself from the race. But always, I begin over at the starting line, and expect more, better, faster.
So naturally, I expect my parents to push, to exercise, see Cincinnati, even if through the windows of the bus, to find what life is left in them. I want them out in the world to find what life is left in them. Instead, I am learning to love them where they live, a world inside, and for Mom in particular, a world inside themselves.
These were the thoughts I carried with me as I stepped through the threshold of 1419, and saw my new life exposed. The construction workers had removed many of the boards off the windows, they too wanting to infuse some daylight into this old gal of a house. For she really is a beauty with soaring windows, scalloped designs on the side of the staircase, quaint views of downtown and Music Hall, and layers of wallpaper extending from ink fountains, to stripes to florals.
What I also saw that day, was a life without my parents. Not to be morbid, though my mother and I used to joke about how many years she had left, when she was only in her sixties. But I understood the timing of the completion of this home, to be mid-fall, and our estimated move in date to follow over a year or two later, would coincide with a gradual diminishment of the life left for my parents.
That they would not be there, to celebrate, to watch this beauty as it is returned to its original stately manner. That my father could not navigate the steep narrow steps. Of course, I fully understand that Enzo, the dog, will need rest areas at the top and bottom of each set of steps as well. These thoughts entered my mind. Though Mom no longer cooks, that she would not be in the kitchen trying to help, by tasting the food, habits she picked up from us, I am sure. That there is a life of mine that they will not be a part of.
When I escort them to my present home, they are comfortable. To this point, sometimes Mom walks up the steps into Davis’ bedroom where she and Dad used to sleep in the past, when they were guests. This has caused some dismay for Davis now that he is a teenager, but we mostly laugh at this action and escort Mom back down.
Mom knows where the bananas are, how to access the cookies and cereal, and how to open the sliding door and step out onto the patio. Dad knows which chairs are helpful to him rising and which are not.
When I was ten, I rode my bike from Ridgeland Drive to Lincoln Street, where my parents were building the new family home. Each trip, I envisioned this new life, while mourning the old. Once the home was constructed and paint added, I came to accept this move as a betterment for our family. I had my own room, painted yellow. With six bedrooms, the home resembled a bed and breakfast, for Mom too.
But Mom and Dad can’t ride their bikes to my new home, nor can I for that matter. They can’t see what we see in the revitalization of the urban core. Most of our friends think we are crazy, I would expect nothing less from my parents.
But mostly, at nights end, we will not hug each other good night. I will not rouse up blankets for them, or hear Mom in the middle of night, waking up one of the kids, wondering where she is. The Easter egg tree has been forgotten this year, and there won’t be one where we are heading. The vast park down the street will have to step up and play the role of Easter Bunny.
A part of me recognizes their presence may not make it self known at 1419. But in the interim, I will drag them down to the home as it is under construction, in the same manner in which I rode my bike to their new home. I will repeat over and again, the history of 1419, the new restaurants sprouting up the street, the return of Washington Park's bandstand, and how we are only caretakers of homes and families, for the time God grants.
