Done

Done. Stick a fork in me. Dinner fork. Tuning fork. You can tune a piano, but you can’t tuna fish. One fish, two fish, red, blue. Definitely blue. Bluer than the sky and darker than death. Blue like the pills. All the pills piled up like shiny jelly beans, but tasted so bitter. It won’t be long now. And here I thought it was a job for life. Motherhood. In those first, soft, hazy (but not lazy) baby days, I did everything. It was exhausting and I was figuring it out as I went. Scared and my own mother was nowhere to be found. But I loved it. My morning started with your beautiful face and ended with your peaceful slumber. Every soggy diaper, every glop of vomit, every snotty crying jag, every soft blue-eyed tear stained look of hope directed up at me, so trusting, so completely confident that Mom would know the answer, Mom could fix it, Mom could soothe it, no matter what it was. It was the best, best, best job I ever had. When I felt like I was finally close to being qualified, I was downsized. But that’s ok.

Overly sentimental. That’s what I am. Not stupid or dumb. I knew it wouldn’t last. Babies grow up into toddlers, into teens and move out and away, so far away that you can never fully reach them again. That trusting light in their eyes goes out completely, like a lighthouse in a dark storm, their trust spread out among all their friends like peanut butter and all I have left is the bitter smell of peanuts and an empty, greasy jar. And yet I held out, happy for occasional questions about a forgotten recipe, or a wallpaper color, or a boy who never texted back. Those crumbs were enough, still taking care of my young, my baby, my child, my progeny. But even those crumbs dried up and blew away like dust. When I asked about her new house and renovating the upstairs bedroom, especially the paint color we had long discussions about (sunflower yellow too bright? faded lemon too pale? how does the sunlight hit that westernly window?), out of the blue she said, “Oh that? I went with Sarina’s suggestion last week and a bunch of friends came over. We painted it that Canary yellow we had talked about. It looks great!”. Only. She told me she hated that color. And wanted me to come help. But why be hurt? Who needs canary crap yellow paint flecks in their hair? But it did hurt. All our conversations were just filling time, all those text messages flying through the air, flying, flying, but my words to my child were just going into a coalmine to die. And it didn’t matter.

Never begin with the ending, isn’t that right? But sometimes you have to take a look back, recall the green pastures and still waters of when life was truly wonderful. Those memories give strength to face the ending. Maybe those little canaries, dying alone in toxic cages, remembered the bright blue sky and the heavenly clouds.

End. Ending. End over end, rolling. Hoop. Circle. Falling over and over. Maybe time is a wheel and I could be back again, doing what I love to do, loving, nurturing, tenderly caring and protecting someone so dear to me. Once I had grandma visions dancing in my head, but how can I, locked out, locked in, inside out and upside down. Always know that I loved you. More than anything. More than everything. You were just done with me. And that’s ok. I’m done with me, too.

AE Stone