Middle of the Night Glimmer

Until I went to college, and probably for many years after, the "rule" in our home for my sisters and I was that we were to be in our bedrooms at nine o'clock, regardless of what was going on.  Of course, there were exceptions like holidays, proms, our own weddings.  You know, things of a more personal nature where our lack of presence would have been noticed.  My parents were very kind about this rule, there was no maliciousness in it.  It was really because my father worked all day, my mother was tired at the end of a long day and they wanted to watch television together alone, or just spend time without children. I can certainly appreciate this and until my eldest daughter was about nine my children were in bed at 7:30 pm, with absolutely no exception.  It wasn't until my sister, who is a teacher and far more reasonable than I in many ways, suggested that really, at nine, she was a bit too old to be going to bed when the kids on the street were still all riding their bikes in the slowing summer sun.  So, I acquiesced and for the summer months, we went a little later.

As I grew older, in high school and college my sisters and I would go out with our friends my father discovered this system with index cards.  On the table were three cards with one of our names on one of the three cards.  When we returned home that evening we would turn our card over, indicating that we were home.  Last one home, locked up the house and turned off all the lights.  I mean, all the lights.  The only light that was left on was the florescent light that was above the sink, and I believe he only left this one on so that my mother, who was disabled, didn't trip over the dog trying to find her way to the kitchen in the middle of the night for her pills or coffee while she waited for the pain to subside.

Many nights as I child I would lay in bed and listen to the noises downstairs and know that she was awake, moving around, making coffee, or maybe just getting some pills and going back to bed.  I was comforted by the movement, knowing she was there, and mostly would roll over and fall back asleep.  Yet as I got older, and less of sure of myself, either in social situations, or over school, or even just a bad dream, I would tiptoe (with no light, of course) to the top of the stairs where my sisters and I shared a room -- yes, three of us in one very large room!  I would peer down the stairs, and through the darkness of the living room, the dining room, and into the family room I could often see the glimmer of the television, playing, no doubt, an old movie.  I would creep down the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone else, for this was purely private time I treasured with my mother.  I took the route through the kitchen because with the help of the florescent light I could find the path through the dark dining room.

There she sat, Sanka by her side, watching tv.  Sometimes she would be rubbing her thighs, rocking back and forth and moaning a little.  Mostly she would be sitting quietly.  I would come around the corner and quickly whisper a greeting so not to startle her.  She was never, not once, in all those years of my interrupting her time, angry, short, surprised, or anything less than pleased to see me.

"What's the matter, baby?  Couldn't sleep?", she would reach for hand, giving it a strong squeeze as I passed to sit down.

How could I tell her I woke up and was suddenly struck with the reality that she would not always be with me.  That someday, probably years from that moment, we wouldn't have that few minutes.  But she knew.  We'd watch a bit of tv, and sometimes I shared what was going on in school.  If I tried to complain about my sisters, she would throw up her hand and say that she was not going to get between sisters,  She never, ever did, and my sisters and I remain close to this day, though my mothers been gone 10 1/2 years.

Years later when I would visit with my own children, and one of them would wake up crying, I'd peer down the steps praying that my mother would be there.  She was, and together we would soothe my daughters.  But even after I became a mother I would come down with a sleeping baby, laying her on the blanket on the couch. Sometimes I would lay my head on my mother's lap, cry and tell her I would miss her, that I couldn't imagine my life without her.  How was I going to raise my daughters to be strong, young women without her?  She would rub my hair with a strong, but gentle hand, and assure me with a quiet voice that I was a fine mother, a wonderful mother.  That she would always be with me, every single time my daughters smiled, I would know she was there.  After a little while, I would wipe my eyes, pick my sleeping babe off the couch hoist her into my arms, and lean her over so my mother could rub their hair with the same strong and gentle hand.  I could tell her kiss had the length of forever behind it.  That hers were meant to last a lifetime for them, not just a few moments as mine had, but we understood that and made peace with it long before she died.

Now when I find myself, tossing and turning in the middle of the night, not because I'm in pain any more, thanks to my fancy, dancy new hip, but because the dishes were left in the sink or I could not possibly face the laundry earlier during the craziness of the day, I sneak upstairs with a bit more light than I had as a child.  I straighten the kitchen, knowing that my eldest who has baked some amazing creation for the family but was too tired to clean will appreciate the cleanliness of the kitchen.  I fold some laundry because with six in the family someone is always looking for something.  I find peace in my time, with a bit more than a glimmer of light, but perhaps I am sharing the same reflections my mother had.  That life is short.  That we must grasp the time we have -- whether it be in the middle of the night, or in the middle of the day at a traffic light.  Some how I hope that at the end of that glimmer my girls will always be able to follow it to me, and that I will always stroke their hair, with the same strength, knowledge and courage my own mother had, reminding them I will always believe in them and always be here -- either in person or in the smile of their child's faces.  I know my mother is here right now, as I write this, not even questioning my middle of the night awakening.

In All Her Beauty and Wisdom