Bamboo in the Dusk of May
May 13, 2013—
The bamboo plant flourished in the dining room of her Rogers Park apartment.
When she moved away three years ago I inherited the plant. It brought us good fortune like bamboo often does. The plant illuminated the present and sometimes pointed towards the future.
I gave the bamboo plant to my mother.
At the time she was 88 years old.
I always kept an eye on the bamboo plant during my Sunday trips to see my parents. My Mom had placed the plant on a small table near a window in the northwest corner of her kitchen. As recent as two years ago my Mom would walk out onto the back porch adjacent to the kitchen and mind the bird bath she put up every spring.
The bamboo plant continued to grow. A lot. I almost wanted to take it back for my Tiki Bar. I had to fetch a bigger vase and more pebbles for the bottom of the vase. I believed it was bringing my parents the fortune all of us hope for. My Mom is now 91 and my Dad is 92. It is quite a story for another time.
My Mom hasn’t been doing well recently and I don’t have many people to share these words with.
The shadow of dementia is rapidly creeping in on her, although I can still stir her up now and then. On Mother’s Day I mentioned the New York Times article about how dog ownership can curb heart trouble.
“We are not getting a dog,” she declared.
Every Sunday when I walk into the living room my mother is sitting in her favorite chair. The brown chair is adjacent to a hassock where she has placed a calendar filled with doctor’s appointments. She wears a gray sweater with deep warm pockets.
My father is always sitting next to her in his wheel chair. The room is quiet and it is old people hot. Sometimes they just look at each other for periods of time without saying anything. They are bookends of memories. The television set is not on and old songs no longer play over the radio. My brother soon will be fetching the piano. Things move away. Things are lost.
But Mom and Dad sit close together, best of friends, hunkering against the cruel winds of time.
One of the repercussions of dementia is how my Mom has neglected to take care of her house plants. She has loved plants her entire life. Now when I visit my parents I notice the plants are dead or dying. I wonder if it is too late to water them, but then I wonder why it snowed this weekend in Northern Michigan.
On Mother’s Day I removed the bamboo plant from the kitchen table.
Its green stems had turned brown. Tiny leaves drooped. It was time to go.
I replaced the bamboo with a bouquet of bright blue hydrangea. Mom liked that which I could see by the twinkle in her eyes. She did not comment about the missing bamboo.
Instead, she looked out the window and saw young birds fly away on Mother’s Day.
Leave a Response