So not buying any green bananas, at 100 years and six weeks.
I call Mom every night. It’s variable, as is expected at her age, the good days alternate with the days when memory doesn’t click in right away, or thoughts drift at mid-sentence. But she’s mostly sharp as a tack, and funny. Then again, solemn and thoughtful; a good listener, and considerate of others more than for herself. That’s just Mom.
It was her wedding anniversary tonight, April 12th, but she seemed to not remember. Dad died in 1977. Funny, because we were discussing her grandfather, Grandpa Schultz, that dear man with blue eyes who sang tenor, and lived – like Mom – blind and into his 90s. He died in 1954. Then we talked more about Isabelle, whom we had discussed recently, and it was all coming back to her. Then she abruptly changed the subject, and reminded me of the importance of looking forward, as those days are gone, gone under the bridge. I get it.
She approved of my day – spent outside at the Musée d’Orsay with Jacques – since we had the chance again to lend the use of the piano to a young French pianist preparing his Chopin ‘Barcarolle’ for a debut recital in Nohan in June. I told her it just felt right to help out, since people also lent to me their homes with a fine piano back when we were rehearsing with Dalton for the Fauré project. Now, the time is right to give back what I can for others. Mom was not only in favor of it, she is in some way the guiding light, as giving generously has always been her way. And she loves Chopin.
She changed the subject again. “How old am I?” It sounded so funny to hear, since we celebrated this last birthday quite thoroughly in February. I answered, as if to a child, “Well, I guess 100 and six weeks: we count babies in weeks, so you’re entitled to the same treatment.” She was quite amazed at the news, and expressed again how it just doesn’t seem possible. “Well, you just keep going on,” she said, “you just have to keep going on.” Then we made the joke again about the green bananas we won’t be buying today and both laughed a good laugh. Uncertainty is part of these phone calls, because this “Good-bye” could very plausibly be the last one.
To close the call, I offered to read her a nice Psalm. Mom used to spend time every morning reading her Bible, when her vision still allowed it. I reached for the small black leather-bound version she personally bought and inscribed for me at the Brentano’s store in Paris in 1980, before they closed (it’s the King James version). I offered to read aloud my favorite, number 71. But I was startled she began to rattle off Psalm 23 by heart.
I shuffled madly back to the page of ‘The Lord is my shepherd’, and we spoke it together over the telephone, yet while her weakened voice was still audible, ever so much more acute to me was that I could sense her utter conviction with each word. For anyone reading this, you surely know the subject. When we were finished, we both knew that this was a good way to end the call. I promised to call tomorrow night, yet while setting down the phone I sensed a new kind of lightness, a touch of peace, or wonder, aware that the ‘still waters’ will continue to move calmly and predictably under the bridge.
(In the picture, Claude Monet, Le basin aux nymphéas, harmonie verte, 1899, Musée d’Orsay)