Yesterday, I bit into a strawberry, expecting sweetness, but instead got a mouth full of bitterness as I searched for flights across the country for my kids and I to go see my Mom. She is in Memory Care in Utah, and she isn’t doing well: she no longer moves, her teeth are falling out, and she sleeps most of the time. Every morning, I wake up and have a moment where I don’t remember, and then it all floods back and my stomach twists into a swirly cinnamon roll.
I sighed and threw out the tart berry as my screen lit up with a list of exorbitant fees.
For those prices, I could fly us all to Paris and stay at the nicest hotel in the city.
If you know me, you know I have a long luscious love affair with Paris, and when I dream of traveling, that’s always the top of my list.
What do I love about Paris?
I love the way it feeds my soul. I love the way art and literature are honored revered, the way the lights bounce of the buildings during the day and shimmer on the river at night, and how every time I turn a corner, there’s another beautiful sculpture.
But right now, my Mom is my Paris.
What do I love about my Mom?
I love the way the sound of her laughter feeds my soul and the exquisite shape of her schoolteacher hands, like they were sculpted by Rodin. I love the way the light shimmers in her big brown eyes, which lately look like the eyes of a lost child.
One of my earliest memories is getting lost at Pacific Beach in San Diego. I was three, and had accompanied my older sister to the bathroom. I was waiting outside for her, when I noticed some rafts for rent. They were puffy, and soft, and I longed to take one out and float on the water. When I turned back around, I no longer knew where I was. There were no familiar faces around me and I started to panic as I wandered through a sea of strangers. Relief flooded me when I saw a woman on a towel wearing an elegant black chiffon scarf tied around her hair. My Mom had a black scarf. I ran up to her in the hot sand, and put my hand on her shoulder. My heart dropped when she turned around and she wasn’t my Mom. That’s when I realized I was really alone, and as the sobs took over my body, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was a man in uniform, and he looked just like the ranger in Yogi Bear. He asked if I was lost, and when I nodded my head, he gently took my hand and hung onto it until I found my mother. It’s been nearly a half-century since that day, and I still sometimes feel like I’m running on hot sand, longing for my mother.
I hesitated on the expensive tickets. If I take the kids to see her, will she even know we are there? My heart aches to not go to Paris, but it aches even more to not see my Mom.
She won’t know who we are, but that’s okay, because we know her.
I just want to be next to her, to read to her, put my arms around her, to feel my heart near hers, and pretend that her brain will come back and she will remember who I am, even for one bittersweet moment.
I hope that somehow, someway, she is able to feel my love wrap around her like a hot crepe wraps around whipped cream and sweet strawberries.
I bought the tickets.
For now, my Mom is my Paris.
