When Fireflies Wink
It is at twilight that I remember Mama best. I can still see her chasing fir
eflies, her skirt swinging below her knees. As the fading sun slips behind G
eorgia pine trees, it leaves the sky blanketed with a sunburst of orange. A
glow radiates from Mama's face and laughter dances in her hazel eyes as she
gathers fireflies in her hand and shows them to me.
Until I was about five, Mama caught fireflies and put them, still blinking,
into an empty mayonnaise jar. Later, she tucked me into bed and I pretended
those pulsating little bugs were a nightlight. Sometimes, they seemed to be
winking at me. Even at that young age, I was painfully aware that Mama never
once told me she loved me. It troubled me that she never kissed me good nig
ht, or at any other time for that matter.
But I believed she cared. She just showed it in a unique way - through humor
. I remember her humor being especially poignant as she battled terminal lun
g cancer. In 1980, the first inkling my husband and I had of trouble was the
day Mama began experiencing chest pains. After a few days of pain so severe
she had trouble talking, she let me drive her to the doctor.
Once in the examining room, Mama pulled the white paper gown over her head a
s she was instructed. She held the paper out for my inspection. "I hate thes
e things," she said, a sparkle of mischief growing in her eyes. "I feel like
an overgrown paper doll." Though deeply concerned, I laughed out loud. That
was Mama.
Later, the X-rays confirmed there was a tumor in her left lung. I had hoped
it wasn't malignant, but after a biopsy the results came back positive. The
doctor gave her a year to live. During that year, Mama battled the cancer by
staying busy. With my husband's help, she planted a small garden outside he
r mobile home on the south side of Atlanta. As soon as the sun blinked upon
the horizon each morning, Mama dragged her three-legged stool outside and sa
t among the green beans, tomatoes and cucumbers to weed the garden, which bl
ossomed with life. After a half hour in the blazing sun, perspiration beaded
her forehead and upper lip. She'd come in gasping.
Once, with a familiar twinkle in her eyes, she said, "You know, my breath ke
eps coming in short pants." Then she laughed. I knew what she was imagining
- puffs of air dressed in a pair of short pants.
In April 1981 Mama lay in a hospital bed, her long battle almost at an end.
One day after radiation therapy, the nurse wheeled Mama's gurney back into h
er room.
Although she was a shell of her former self, a smile twinkled in her hazel e
yes. "My mouth is so dry," she said. "I thought they'd have to shave my tong
ue." Not only did I laugh out loud but the nurse smiled as well. Thankfully,
Mama's humor made accepting her illness a little easier.
One day as I left the hospital room I couldn't hold back the tears. I felt a
comforting touch on my shoulder as I neared the nurses' station. I turned t
o see a nurse whose eyes showed deep concern. "Why can't you cry with your m
other?" she asked. I shook my head trying to regain composure. "It's a shame
," she went on, "because every time you leave, your mother cries too."
I wanted so much to let Mama know I cared, but it was impossible since I'd n
ever received outward affection from her. I simply didn't know how to show h
er that I loved her. As an adult with four children of my own, it was beyond
my comprehension how a mother could not kiss her child or say, "I love you.
"
As I pondered our lives together, questions formed in my mind. Why can't I t
ell my mother that I love her? Was it because of the betrayal I felt when sh
e left my father?
Perhaps it was Mama's growing alcoholism. Maybe she just couldn't handle lov
e and was incapable of giving it. I didn't know. I only knew the words "I lo
ve you" never came from her lips and the same words remained stuck in my thr
oat. I also grieved the fact that I could not kiss her.
With the rebirth of spring and the resurrection of the once-dormant azaleas
and dogwoods, I found myself thinking of the Easter season and the sacrifice
of God's son over two thousand years before. Although I was alienated from
God during this season of sorrow, I remember pleading with him, Please help
me say good-bye to my mother before it's too late.
Every day I brought my barely used Bible to Mama's room and curled up on a v
inyl chair partially hidden behind the hospital bed. One evening when twilig
ht shadows filled the room, I sat in my usual place silently reading from th
e Psalms. I don't know who the dark-haired nurse was who interrupted my thou
ghts, and she had no idea I was sitting there in the shadows. I held my brea
th as she walked up to Mama. Watching in silence, I saw the nurse gently bru
sh Mama's chestnut hair from her face. She held Mama's face in her hands in
the most tender way. I knew she must be an angel sent by God because she did
the one thing I couldn't: she leaned down and kissed Mama's forehead. As I
gently exhaled, the woman tiptoed from the room.
The next day doctors were forced to increase the dosage of morphine to ease
Mama's pain. Through the veil of drugs, Mama's eyes glazed and I feared I ha
d waited too late to say good-bye. Beneath the green oxygen mask, she strugg
led for every breath. I struggled with her. She probably won't hear me, I th
ought, but I have to tell her.
I picked up my mother's spindly hand and held it. I took a sharp breath, and
for all the times I couldn't speak, I whispered, "Mama, I love you." For a
heartbeat in eternity, Mama's eyes cleared. She looked at me and a smile tra
ced her lips. The presence of God in that room was inexplicable. It was as t
hough God himself winked at me - the way fireflies wink at children on warm,
summer nights. By Nanette Thorsen-Snipes |
