Johnny Cash sang a song Kris Kristofferson wrote called "Sunday Morning Coming Down." It's soulful and honest, jarring and jangly, talking about a Sunday morning full of bittersweet memories leaking into a present full of things better forgotten.
There's a line about the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken, and how it took him back to something he lost somehow along the way. A few lines later, the singer wishes he "were stoned, 'cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone". The wistful wanting reminds me of my mom, of how good memories seemed easy to make with her.
I visited her last Sunday, before I packed up to leave Oklahoma. She was so keenly present, it was like there was no white mass, no memory loss, no darkness. She smiled for pictures and talked about naming her new stuffed puppy. We talked for almost a solid two hours.
Her vocabulary shrank sometime I wasn't watching, like one Sunday morning she came down. She spoke softly about how sad I had been the week before.
I can't lie and couldn't deny it; it'd been a rough week. I'd tried not to cry in front of her, to be honest about the situation but not overly critical, since her emotions rule her so frequently and inconsistently. But truth was, I missed my mom and my sounding board. Isolation, frustration, unempowerment choked me.
I told her I was, but that it was ok; I would be sad for her. Oklahoma and I didn't fit each other well, but I was there to be with her. She said she was taken care of, happy where she was; that I had to do what was best for me.
And that being sad wasn't good for me.
So I moved back to Texas with my packed PT Cruiser James.
I traveled back to Oklahoma to see Mom today, unsure how she might be when I returned. Walking into her room, she peeked out from beneath The Marshmallow. Her face lit up when she saw me, and God, I had missed her.
She cried because she was tired and wanted to rest but wanted to talk, too. Tears slipped from her eyes as she kept fighting to stay conscious, to remember her words, to hold thoughts.
She thought I had left and would not come back to see her. The week seemed endless as her memory played tricks. She asked quietly for hugs, clinging as much as she was able.
Seems there is something short of dying that's as lonesome as the sound of the sleepin' city sidewalks: a Saturday night coming down.
There's a line about the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken, and how it took him back to something he lost somehow along the way. A few lines later, the singer wishes he "were stoned, 'cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone". The wistful wanting reminds me of my mom, of how good memories seemed easy to make with her.
I visited her last Sunday, before I packed up to leave Oklahoma. She was so keenly present, it was like there was no white mass, no memory loss, no darkness. She smiled for pictures and talked about naming her new stuffed puppy. We talked for almost a solid two hours.
Her vocabulary shrank sometime I wasn't watching, like one Sunday morning she came down. She spoke softly about how sad I had been the week before.
I can't lie and couldn't deny it; it'd been a rough week. I'd tried not to cry in front of her, to be honest about the situation but not overly critical, since her emotions rule her so frequently and inconsistently. But truth was, I missed my mom and my sounding board. Isolation, frustration, unempowerment choked me.
I told her I was, but that it was ok; I would be sad for her. Oklahoma and I didn't fit each other well, but I was there to be with her. She said she was taken care of, happy where she was; that I had to do what was best for me.
And that being sad wasn't good for me.
So I moved back to Texas with my packed PT Cruiser James.
I traveled back to Oklahoma to see Mom today, unsure how she might be when I returned. Walking into her room, she peeked out from beneath The Marshmallow. Her face lit up when she saw me, and God, I had missed her.
She cried because she was tired and wanted to rest but wanted to talk, too. Tears slipped from her eyes as she kept fighting to stay conscious, to remember her words, to hold thoughts.
She thought I had left and would not come back to see her. The week seemed endless as her memory played tricks. She asked quietly for hugs, clinging as much as she was able.
Seems there is something short of dying that's as lonesome as the sound of the sleepin' city sidewalks: a Saturday night coming down.
No comments:
Post a Comment