Never too late–Miryam Howard enters our contest

Literati

Sunrise.  Sunset.

Freud said the source of all pain–all pain, is the loss of love. Hard to argue.  But perhaps the source of all joy and pleasure is love recovered?

Years ago I befriended Miryam and her husband Baruch before they emigrated to Israel where each sunrise is fraught with uncertainty, and each sunset is cause for gratitude. As you read her contribution to our contest, you will understand why I feel such affection for her.  A poignant story of the cathartic power of forgiveness, and the realization that dementia or diminished cognative abilities may not be the curse we imagined it to be, but something to accept with grtatitude.

Never Too Late

by Miryam Howard

Jerusalem, Israel

I fled in a shocked daze, rushing to the elevator where my rental car was parked on the busy street below. It wasn’t until I sat behind the wheel that I realized my body was shaking and my heart was pounding out of my chest. I felt sick. A wave of disbelief filled my mind like a dark thunderstorm…

Had she really screamed those words? Did she actually whirl objects across the room at me? Flashbacks suddenly played across my mind — the deep wounds revisited. Her outburst had happened so quickly this time — I never saw it coming! Memories no longer dormant awakened, ready to strike. My hope of a loving relationship evaporated once again; escaping into a vaporless void.

I had planned this trip for weeks. It was to be the first Mother’s Day we would spend together in many years; perhaps the last. She was in her 80’s — the clock was ticking. I had been hopeful, envisioning new memories that would wash away the pain of our past. Now, regret reared its ugly head, and anger arose within me like a menopausal hot flash. It was clear, my mother was incapable, yet I couldn’t stop yearning for her love — the love which was birthed when our eyes first met.

I boarded my plane back to Seattle, vowing to forgive her once again.

2

A few years later: I walk down the same hallway from where I had once fled. Opening her door, I softly greet her. I place a bowl of her favorite chicken soup next to her bed as she lifts her head and smiles. I kiss her wrinkled forehead and smooth back her glossy snow-white hair. I tell her she is beautiful and that the weather today is lovely as I open her patio door, inviting the warm ocean breeze to wash us. She slowly sits up and tastes her soup. She says she isn’t hungry and proceeds to finish it all. I give her the LA Times, and we casually talk about the headlines. She says she likes my pretty pink blouse. She sometimes believes that she is a young girl back in Wisconsin where she grew up and I will gently remind her that she has lived in California since 1947. Her expression looks as if I am reading her a story from a novel.

Bitterness has been swept away by her companion dementia and only childlike sweetness remains. The pain and wounds which raged within her life for so long, no longer haunt her. She lives within the breath of each sacred moment, declaring that second chances really do exist.

In Loving Memory of Geraldine Faye Meier