Mother's Day

Her father lays dying in a hospital bed on the fourth floor. He is ninety-five. My mother has been there off and on, mostly on, for the last two weeks. He has lived in a little apartment my parents built behind their  house since Mildred died several years ago. My mother has taken care of him ever since. Three days ago he lost the ability to walk. Yesterday he had a lucid hour or two, more or less lucid anyway, having the funny papers read to him by his great great grand daughter. Today he has only gained the slimmest layer of consciousness, enough to squeeze his great grand daughter's hand in acknowledgment of her; and enough to respond to the offer of a feeble sip of water through a straw. He will not last this week, maybe not this night. There are a lot of us here today. In spite of our strong independent natures, we are a tight family. I watch my Mother's eyes as we talk her into letting us take her to dinner. She does not want to leave him. She can't stand the thought of him dying  when she is not there. But she does. It is a good break for her. Her brother is here from the hill country and the older generation tells stories of their youth. Stories like how Uncle Cotton (my great Uncle) would let the horses out of the corral early in the morning then wake up the kids and tell them to go get them. They would spend all day rounding them up from the vast expanses of the ranch, rope them up, then ride them in at dark, all the while having the time of their lives. Uncle Cotton would tell them as a winking taunt or tease of a warning "Now don't let them horses out. We'll want to ride 'em in the morning." But early the next day Cotton would be up before dawn unhooking the loop on the gate. We have a good laugh. It was so easy to amuse children in those days. As we finished dinner a light rain ushered us from the patio and back into the crowded restaurant. We had been the only party on the patio due to the (mildly) warm weather. We brave the sprinkle to the cars and return to the hospital. Granddaddy has stirred enough to get the idea across that he is in pain. They give him morphine. This will help him sleep peacefully through the long night. I remember the flowers I brought for my Mother. A beautiful bouquet of yellow roses tinged with bright orange in a medium small glass vase. I had left them in the car not knowing if I would find mom here or at home. I had to get back to the city so I told her I'd be back in a minute. "I have something for you" I said. But when I got to the car I realized what a foolish mistake I had made. Only two remained beautiful. The rest had wilted and now sagged from the vase. The heat of the day, amplified in the confines of my car had killed them. Two roses would just look stupid in the vase that had once held nine surrounded by too much Baby's Breath. How could I give my mother wilted flowers as her father dies? I took them up anyway. I felt demoralized. My only hope was to get a laugh; which I got from my sister and niece who were in the waiting room. I threw away the wilted flowers and stole a couple of slightly pinker orange roses with a wink from my sister's bouquet. With my pocket knife I quickly made a passable arrangement with those and the two that had survived from mine. "We're all just borrowing life from each other" I told her (she was still laughing). Then I walked into the room where my grandfather lay dying and kissed my mother on the cheek, handing her the roses.