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But by the end of the month, visitors came to draw me out.
Don’t say any more, she answered.
I tried to say something; I couldn’t make the words come.
I was stunned. The little shock before was nothing to this.
She had turned so she could see the fire. Her profile, the delicacy of her nose and lips, were beautiful to look at. Then she looked back at me and in the same steady voice without undue emotion she said:
Oh, hell with it, I answered.
And though she’d never said anything about my clothes or my beard or how dreadful I looked, she sent the servants in with clean clothes for me, and the razor and warm water, and silently I let myself be taken care of by them.
I wanted to take her hands, but I knew she’d never allow it. She disliked to be touched. She never put her arms around anyone. And so it was in our glances that we held each other. My eyes filled with tears looking at her.
But there was more to it than that. She had always been silently unhappy. She hated the inertia and the hopelessness of our life here as much as I did. And now, after eight children, three living, five dead, she was dying. This was the end for her.
She left me just as she’d come in, silently.
I was stunned. The little shock before was nothing to this.
And though she’d never said anything about my clothes or my beard or how dreadful I looked, she sent the servants in with clean clothes for me, and the razor and warm water, and silently I let myself be taken care of by them.
I determined to get up if it would make her feel better, but when I tried I couldn’t. The thought of her dying was unbearable. I paced the floor of my room a lot, ate the food brought to me, but still I wouldn’t go to her.
I made some little anguished sound. I think I leaned forward and said,Mother
I tried to say something; I couldn’t make the words come.
Finally I roared laughing. I pounded my knee with my fist and hit my head on the wood of the bed behind me. And she almost laughed herself. Maybe in her own quiet way she was laughing.
But there was more to it than that. She had always been silently unhappy. She hated the inertia and the hopelessness of our life here as much as I did. And now, after eight children, three living, five dead, she was dying. This was the end for her.
She had turned so she could see the fire. Her profile, the delicacy of her nose and lips, were beautiful to look at. Then she looked back at me and in the same steady voice without undue emotion she said:
I tried to say something; I couldn’t make the words come.
She pulled the pin out of her hair and let it tumble down to her shoulders.
I’ll never leave here. I am dying now.
She pulled the pin out of her hair and let it tumble down to her shoulders.
She left me just as she’d come in, silently.
I think she hated to be called mother, but I hadn’t been able to help it.
But by the end of the month, visitors came to draw me out.
Curious moment. Some almost brutal sense of her as a human being quite removed from all that surrounded her. We did understand each other, and all my resentment of her didn’t matter too much.
Don’t think on it much, she said.I don’t. Just only now and then. But you must be ready to live on without me when the time comes. That may be harder for you than you realize.
She had turned so she could see the fire. Her profile, the delicacy of her nose and lips, were beautiful to look at. Then she looked back at me and in the same steady voice without undue emotion she said:
Don’t think on it much, she said.I don’t. Just only now and then. But you must be ready to live on without me when the time comes. That may be harder for you than you realize.
