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I am almost three-quarters of the way through the latté I bought at the bagel shop before I decide that it isn't worthy of the book I'm reading (One Man's Trash by Ivan E. Coyote). My drink's overly sweet and the espresso tastes stale or over-roasted or bitter or… bad, anyway. And I've got a blueberry cinnamon bun with cream cheese icing from Uprising Breads to enjoy, so I don't know why I'm still sipping this lousy coffee.
The phone rings. Call display says "M's parents"; I answer.
"Hi. It's Mom."
She doesn't sound right. I think I know already.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
She's not.
She continues, voice strained and tense: "Your Oma passed away last night. She was in a morphine induced coma. She woke up, just for a bit, but all she said was that she was tired. She fought so hard... but she was so tired."
I think of Oma. She liked rum-soaked raisins. She could play cards for hours; it was what we did every time she came to visit or when we visited her. She loved that my sister and I could play 31 and rummy when we were still very little. She gave me her collection of old Charles Dickens books many years ago, when she realized I was the only grandchild likely to actually read them. It was hard to feel close to her: my sister and I lived halfway across the country until we were in our teens, and my Oma has nine children, twenty grandchildren, and now a bunch of great-grandchildren too. But I love her.
I express my regrets.
Her aunts and uncle up in Nelson are meeting today or tomorrow to make funeral decisions, so my Mom will let me know when she hears.
My Mom is still hosting my sister's birthday dinner tomorrow.
"Is there anything I can do? Are you OK?" because what else do you say?
"I'm OK..." she starts crying a little, "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'll see you tomorrow night. 5:30, OK?"
"Yes, 5:30. I love you."
"I love you too."
I hang up the phone and cry. I don't cry for my Oma yet. I cry first for my Mom: for her loss of her mother, for her apologies for her tears, for the space between us. I cry for her because I know she won't let me cry with her. It's just not how my family is; it's not what my family does. I cry for Oma later, when I see a deck of well-worn cards on my bookshelf and realize that she'll never beat me at rummy again.
The phone rings. Call display says "M's parents"; I answer.
"Hi. It's Mom."
She doesn't sound right. I think I know already.
"How are you?"
"Fine."
She's not.
She continues, voice strained and tense: "Your Oma passed away last night. She was in a morphine induced coma. She woke up, just for a bit, but all she said was that she was tired. She fought so hard... but she was so tired."
I think of Oma. She liked rum-soaked raisins. She could play cards for hours; it was what we did every time she came to visit or when we visited her. She loved that my sister and I could play 31 and rummy when we were still very little. She gave me her collection of old Charles Dickens books many years ago, when she realized I was the only grandchild likely to actually read them. It was hard to feel close to her: my sister and I lived halfway across the country until we were in our teens, and my Oma has nine children, twenty grandchildren, and now a bunch of great-grandchildren too. But I love her.
I express my regrets.
Her aunts and uncle up in Nelson are meeting today or tomorrow to make funeral decisions, so my Mom will let me know when she hears.
My Mom is still hosting my sister's birthday dinner tomorrow.
"Is there anything I can do? Are you OK?" because what else do you say?
"I'm OK..." she starts crying a little, "I'm sorry. Sorry. I'll see you tomorrow night. 5:30, OK?"
"Yes, 5:30. I love you."
"I love you too."
I hang up the phone and cry. I don't cry for my Oma yet. I cry first for my Mom: for her loss of her mother, for her apologies for her tears, for the space between us. I cry for her because I know she won't let me cry with her. It's just not how my family is; it's not what my family does. I cry for Oma later, when I see a deck of well-worn cards on my bookshelf and realize that she'll never beat me at rummy again.
