So I guess this is the part…

1 04 2009

where I rub in the fact that I am sitting on the balcony of my hotel room in Florida.  The breeze ruffling my shower-damp hair.  The sea.  Right there.  Ahhh, I love the sea.

I’m not the kind of person who needs to be running around, constantly keeping themselves busy with something mundane and useless.  I crave the time just to sit an observe the world.  Watch the trickle of trucks along the palm-lined roads on a Wednesday morning.  Stare at the waves.  Watch birds glide by.  Just look.  Just think.

I like to watch the people slowly creep onto their balcony.  Hover at the railing.  They think they are alone in the world.  But they’re not.  I’m not either.  Because somewhere someone is noticing me.  Somewhere someone is thinking about me.

I look over at my mother, and I am suddenly choked with sadness.  Her head is tilted over her paperback.  She’s cocooned by a creamy hotel blanket.  She sniffles at The Secret Lives of Bees.  But she’s old.  I looked at the wrinkles billowing around her chin, the tiny pillows beneath her eyes.  With her lips pursed with concentration, I am thrust forward in time.  I see a teeny old lady I will be visiting in the nursing home.  I realize that Mom probably doesn’t envision her own mother as the shriveled grandmother  I see Grandmom as.  I want time to freeze.  I don’t want my mother to get older.  Not so much that it would mean that I am aging too, but in that I can’t lose her.




3 responses

2 04 2009

I had to leave a comment on this post, because this is perhaps the best blog post in the history of blog posts. I have thought the same exact thing about my dad one day when he was outside working on his car. It was strange and pretty unsettling, but this post made me feel a little better in that I wasn’t the only one thinking about it.


2 04 2009

Beautiful, Marion. I could be jealous of your being in Florida, but I am also jealous at your writing skills. I don’t want my mom to grow older either, I used to cry about it when I was younger, because I didn’t want her to change and get old and leave.

7 04 2009

This is so beautifully written. Not only because it is heartfelt, but because of your use of the English language.
I love you a lot.

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