A Visit to Mother's

Dear Diary:

I made the trip to visit my darling mother, Lauren, today at the home for 'semi-retired anonymous women'. With me, I brought pictures from a recent outing we enjoyed together. She offered her usual excitement with my arrival but was entirely more thrilled with the pictures from the social outing. She quickly unwrapped the photo finishing packaging and began sorting the images into two distinct stacks. In her aging years, it seems the smallest of tasks bring the most joy. I was thankful for an opportunity to lift her spirits from her increasingly clouding head.

Reviewing the pictures, she was very pleased with her appearance that evening. There were several lovely shots of her with old friends but what interested her most were pictures of her on stage. During the event, she was brought forward and given an opportunity to speak on a famed topic of hers, ‘The Importance of Community’. She examined one particular close-up shot and commented.
“It seems I was a bit white.”
"A bit?" I thought to myself.
I went into a lecture on the importance of updating her makeup, for she had not even purchase a new stick of lip colour in years.
“Lauren, cosmetics have entirely changed since your last purchase,” I pointed to the picture “Coloured powders applied in final touch ups could have darkened you slightly.”
“Well, I looked fine when we left.” I wandered quickly back to the ninety-nine dollar Best Western room we had taken to ready for the event. Lauren clarified, blamed, “It’s the lighting.” And shuffled this image to the back of her stack.

On the night, only three weeks ago, she had such a great time and was on quite a high, as we had shared a few laughs and cocktails just before leaving the room. I can never be sure, but I think it is her habit to continued drinking for a few days after a great night out. Fanning the images like a hand of poker, she asked.
“Why are there no pictures of my performance at The Play?”
"The camera had run out of film by then, darling." She is so fragile in her current state, I couldn't bare telling her the truth; that her performance was done just a 'few' to late in the evening for pictures. She took my answer as truth, 'hook, line and sinker' as she nestled in her patchwork quilt, examining the images now through a polished lorgnette; such an innocent lamb she's become.

She reviewed these same pictures of herself for several minutes each and over again as if looking for ghosts of friends in the background. Finally she put down the stack face down beside her, not quite willing to let them go. Now, she picked up the second stack of images she had lovingly sorted them earlier. One at a time she began to scrutinize these images of me.
"You looked great... now that your legs aren't so skinny."
Flipped to the next one.
"I was surprised you looked good in THAT black wig."
She glanced at me then back to the image, squinting to ask her eyes to clear the fog and then dismissed the image; flipping to the next one.
"You know, it didn't help much wearing a belt with that outfit."
And with the final picture came the last of her spears to my heart.
"You USED to wear such beautiful jewelry."
She flipped to the next image, which was the first returned to the top of the stack. She looked it over once more, chuckled to herself and handed them back to me. A mother’s love is cruel at times, but in the end us children can take and hold the last and final word.

She picked up her stack and quickly sorted to the close-up of her face. “I’m surprised at how good I looked on stage.”

Later, after several Blue Berry teas, she excused herself, I assumed innocently to the washroom. I was glad for the chance to close my eyes, as the heaviness from the tea had gotten to me. After a short but truly unintended cat nap and now out of shear concern, heard a soft but shrilling sound, which I knew to be Mother’s singing. I followed her falsetto voice, piercing the stale air in a version of 'Diamonds are a girls best Friend', to a slightly ajar doorway at the end of a long knick-knack cluttered hallway. When I creaked the door open, Lauren was revealed folded amidst many opened boxes, large envelopes and cookie tins. She turned to greet me looking like a child with hot hands in a chocolate factory; dust and ink smeared face with a cheerful smile. She had been thumbing through newspaper clipping, old posters and photographs (black and whites and some of the newer stuff, in colour) from her days on stage.
So pleased with herself, "Look what I found..." She looked down at the articles, pretending to read the captions she had long ago memorized.
“Remember when I won this title?” She pointed to a fading image of a blond bombshell taking a victory walk in sash and crown.
“You didn’t win that, you came in second place.” And then I further pointed out, “That’s not you, it’s the winner.”
“Well, I did take home all the prizes.” She was now positioned with dignity. “That bitch was fucking the Producer. They gave me them all to keep my mouth shut and, I accepted them, all.”
Even with the stench of mold, moth balls and her now over due Depends, her smile could still touch my heart.

“Help me with these.” She insisted. It was all I could do to get her out of there with only a few of those nasty dust ridden crates. Back in the living area, she lovingly spread the contents over the dining room table, lite by a yellowed crystal chandelier. Honestly, it is shameful the way she keeps my inheritables. I realized that even ALL these items could not satisfy her nostalgia, today, when she informed.
"I've got one more thing I want to show you." Insisting we go back to uncover yet another treasure.

Now, I was sure I had seen everything at least four times from this safe house of her past. However, from the closet we toted a large heavily framed item, wrapped caringly in a fragile fabric. I knew the article of clothing to be a cape she had specially coutured for a magical ball, years ago. Who could have guessed such a glamorous white slipper satin could turn such a haunting shade and clingy texture with age? The cape had been used to as a cover for her in a final entrance at the ball. It draped her body giving a deathly profile as she lay atop a coffin carried to stage by six handsomely groomed men in tuxedo. Dramatically, the cape had been torn away by several ill rehearsed, yet g-string clad, exotic dancers, to reveal a lily toting figure; Marilyn Monroe. After being awakened by the kisses of several of the dancers, Lauren suddenly sprang to life, prancing about singing "We're having a heat wave".
Such a flair for the dramatic my mother has.

The cape was now the protector of a life size photograph, a portrait; perhaps plucked for atop the grand staircase of Tara. Pictured, in black and white was Lauren fully blossoming, from her youthful days, in stripped swim suit and white heels.
Without thinking I released "That was daring."
"Well, in those days, I could wear anything." And coyly she added. "You don't see too many women able to pull off swim wear anymore."
What a treasure my mother is.