AMD

"Well has it been said that there is no grief like the grief which does not speak."

--------------Henry Wadsworth Longfellow    

     My eighty-five year old mother, AMD, no longer speaks. Her physical health is good, but a deep, lingering sadness shows deep in her eyes. No longer excited by dressing elegantly or applying makeup, she wears comfortable lounging clothes during the day.

     Two years have passed since my dad's death, and one year since her second child's death. This once vibrant, energetic, feisty matriarch of our family lacks even the will to speak. She sits or naps all day. No elixir exists that can bring her back to us, except, perhaps, time.

     Last week I spent seven days trying to cheer her up. We spent time sitting on the swing in her back yard, snacking on confections I created, and gazing at the beautiful sky on a perfect fall day. She listened as I recounted my most recent adventures back home in Atlanta and seemed to anticipate the arrival of my grandchildren and daughter-in-law later in the week. She observed as I prepared meals she likes but missing were the usual comments we shared at the kitchen table.

     Saturday she spent most of the afternoon outdoors observing her extended family- children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren and their cousins and friends enjoying a Halloween party in her back yard. She seemed to enjoy tasting the many appetizers offered, but sat quietly as the young children laughed, played, and cried.

     AMD has excellent caretakers who cater to her and make certain she's comfortable twenty four hours every day. Doctors appointments and a weekly visit to the hair stylist are the only ventures outside of her home that she allows. Nothing seems to interest her. Listlessness and frailty are consuming her because she does not have the energy to move. Moving would certainly keep her muscles from atrophying.

     AMD's favorite hobbies were writing and photography. Her formidable picture albums provide years of historical images of Loreauville. Stashed in drawers and closets are hundreds of journals she wrote during her lifetime. My favorite reminders of her artistic ability are free hand pencil illustrations of a womans profile. In her twenties she wrote a society column for The Daily Iberian.

     Like a candle slowly flickering, my mother waits. I pray every day that her strong will breaks through the depression and brings her back to us so my grandchildren who see her a few times a year can remember her as the amazing person she used to be.