Promises

My mother died two weeks ago today. My home is quiet except for the sound of my memories. Memories of my mother. Today, being an anniversary of sorts is hard. I suppose all of the anniversaries will be this way. Anniversaries and holidays alike. Still, I will remember my mother and get through them.

In reflecting back to the time I had with my mother before she died, I am so very thankful. I was with her for nine days and ten nights directly before she passed away. Several of those evenings I crawled into bed with her to watch her favorite 'True-Crime' shows on television: a passion I have inherited from her. I'd rub her back, apply her favorite lip balm, or gently hold her hand. Often, we spoke quietly together in the dark of the night; the light of the television softly illuminating her face. I marveled at her beauty, even then. Her illness had stolen nearly all of her body, yet her face remained softly beautiful; a water-color painting.

"I'm so grateful you're here with me, Kim," my mother repeated over and over. "I don't know what Daddy and I would do without you." The words were unnecessary. I knew. "I'm thankful to be here, Mom," I told her. "I wouldn't want to be anywhere else in the world." It was true.

As my mother's breathing grew weaker it became more and more difficult for her to speak. "You are a good mother," she suddenly said, very clearly. It was the greatest compliment she could have ever given me. "I'm only a good mother because of you, Mom," I replied, kissing her softly on the cheek. It goes without saying that she was my only teacher.

My mother asked me to promise her several things during those last few days we spent together. She was (of course) most worried about my father. "He can't even boil an egg," she said one night, with a feeble smile. "Don't worry about Daddy," I told her. "We'll all take care of him," I reassured her, referring to my brothers and sisters.

Mom reminded me of her beloved fifteen-year-old dog, a Yorkie named 'Prissy.' I promised her that I would take Prissy to the vet for a check-up. I would make sure she had all of her necessary shots and medicine. I did so in in the week after my mother died. Prissy is in good health; blind and deaf but living a good life with my father who adores her.

Mother asked me to take care of her dolls: a collection of hundreds. She didn't want my dad to be 'bothered' with them. After Mom passed away, I spent two days organizing them and discovered over 30 'play' dolls that were still in their original boxes. My dad bundled them all up and drove to the Elks Lodge where he donated them as Christmas presents for underprivileged little girls. This Christmas, special presents will be under trees all over Casa Grande thanks to my mother. For now, the rest of them sleep soundly wrapped in pink tissue paper awaiting my return.

One of Mom's final requests was for me to go through all of the Christmas ornaments she and my father had collected over the years. She asked me to organize shoe boxes full of shiny and glittery mementos. A special collection for my father, one for each of my brothers and sisters, and another for me. Someday in the future she wanted the ornaments passed down to the next generation. I have the shoe boxes ready and waiting. Time got the best of me but this will be one of the first things I do when I go back to visit my father.

My sister Brenda and I promised our dear mother that we would help her trim the Christmas tree. It sits atop my parent's fireplace hearth; the evergreen branches bathed in cottony 'snow' and brightened with creamy, white lights. Mother passed away before we could decorate the tree together. Afterwards, I felt I should do it but I sensed it was too much for my father to bare. The tree itself was a comfort to him. He knew how much it pleased Mother in her final days. She used to sit in her favorite chair and gaze at the quiet lights with a peacefulness surrounding her. After all he had been through, the festivity of adding colorful ornaments was something my father wasn't ready for. Too much, too soon. For now, I would leave the tree as is.

A few days after Brenda left for her home in Texas, a small package appeared in my father's mailbox. Inside, tucked in white tissue paper were two new Christmas ornaments. Brenda had purchased them before her trip to see Mother but in her haste to arrive she had forgotten to bring them with her.

I sat next to my father as he gingerly opened each new ornament. The first was a beautiful clear, acrylic heart trimmed with a gold cord. The heart was lined with our family surname (Kirk) together with all of our first names printed over and over in gold: Paul, Susan, Kim, David, Brenda, Kellie and Daniel.

The second ornament was a shiny, silver angel. Engraved in the middle was the name of our mother: Susan Carol. My father handed me the gold cord of the first opened ornament: the family heart. He watched me carefully hang it on a perfect green branch right in the center for all to see. Then, as if he was handling butterfly wings, he carefully placed the angel of our mother at the very top of the tree where it seemed to belong.

Together with Brenda and my father, I did help decorate the Christmas tree after all. And, because of the shiny, silver angel inscribed with her name, Mom was a very special part of it.

The tree is perfect. Just as I promised.