Velvet

I confess that my recent writings have  become a chronicle of caregiving for an aging parent. But I ask your forgiveness and patience. For these things will pass. And I pray that in some small way, these words are a lamplight for other travelers along this path. And I pray as well, that they’ll help me remember what not to forget.

The jury has been out on diagnosing my mother with new layers of dementia, verses common reactions to medication that can spontaneously occur in the elderly.

Last night, the gavel came down, in full effect, with a blow to my heart. It took my breath away in its thunder and reverberated like a drumbeat of what is to come and what has been and what is no more.

 There are some rules of engagement in the daily care of my mother. The lights must always be on. The door must always be open. And the television must always be broadcasting Turner Classic Movies at full blast volume.

I have learned some things about these classics that hold my mother in rapt attention to an era now gone by. In the films that echo through our tiny dwelling space, it is always Christmas Eve, war is glorified, women are weak and hysterical, America is always right, smoking is sexy and white unconscious privilege reigns supreme.

And yet. And still.

Just one sultry glance between Bogie and Bacall makes you believe in a love that wraps you in velvet layers of the possible Heart. 

Judy Garland leads us down Yellow Brick Roads towards the breaking points of human endurance and pathways that lead ever Home.

Yankee Doodles make you want to Sing in the Rain and declare that It’s a Wonderful Life.

Because it is. Even amidst our perils and pitfalls in this pilgrimage of evolution.

Last night, my mother was sleepwalking again. Although something was different this time. She had changed the channel on her television broadcast. To watch and give witness to an era gone by. To wrap the memories in the soft velvet layers of her Heart.

She stood at the foot of her bed in deep and contemplative conversation. She almost glowed. My years of Hospice work made me question if she was visioning. I wondered if others who’d crossed the veil had come to comfort and guide her. So deep was her encounter and so long its duration. I watched protectively, from a distance, making sure she was safe, but not interfering.

Finally, she walked out and approached me.

“Honey,” she said, exhaustedly, “I just had the best conversation, though I couldn’t get a word in edgewise. That nice Christiane Amanpour came to talk to me personally about the death of the Queen Mother, Elizabeth. We talked of her encounters with Churchill. Her leading the Nation through World War ll. Her meetings with the Kennedy’s. I had to get up out of bed to get closer to her, because our conversation was so important. I have to laugh though, she just wouldn’t let me get a word in edgewise.”

And with that I tucked my mother back into bed. And the gavel resounded its verdict. But it landed in soft velvet landscapes.  Interior tapestries. Safeguarded in innocent  visions of Hearts that grow as they beat.

The legacy of the Monarchy is much like a Turner Classic Movie. There have been so many mistakes along the way. Yet such is the way of evolution. And, Oh, the Majesty. Of who we are and who we can be. And the enchantment of being held in the arms of a sincere desire to be of royal  and noble service. To believe in a stable and steadfast sentry of all that is good and right and true.

Thank you, Dear Queen, for your soft spoken service and presence across generations.

Thank you, Christiane Amanpour, for your trustworthy presence that lept off the screen as My Mother escorted the Queen Mother Home.

And in all your journeys, please,

Remember this:

“A kiss is just a kiss. A sigh is just a sigh. 

On these you can rely.

The fundamental things apply,

As Time Goes By.”