FOR MOTHER'S DAY

I wrote the following story when my mother had moved to a nursing home.  It was published in July of 2005 by Today’s Senior Newsmagazine.  She has since passed away and is now a beloved memory for me to keep.

 

MINE TO KEEP

            I have never wanted to be keeper of the past.  But each time my parents downsized I was expected to take all things my Mother could not bear to lose forever, such as furniture, artwork, ornaments, knickknacks, clothing and linens.  My house overflows with her past.  And even though she is losing her memory, I must keep these things and remember for her.

            Most recently she has moved from an apartment to a nursing home and now I have a giant box of old photos to keep.  It sits in my spare bedroom and any time I open the door, it chastises me for not paying attention.  Now once a week I visit the box as I visit my Mother, the obedient child being dutiful.

            Part of me rebels to the extent that I will not let my Mother escape her past so easily.  Each time I visit her, I visit the box first and take a handful of photos with me.  In her room we sit with the photos on a table between us and I make her look at each one.  “Who is this person, Mom?  Where was this photo taken?  What year was it?”  And I write down pertinent details on the back of each photo.  She can remember her distant past, but not what day of the week it is today.

            I am determined that if I must keep these pictures, then I must know the people in them.  And my knowledge must be recorded for the generations that come after me.

            Last Saturday we went through many photos that had been saved by her Mother, my Grandmother.  Most we were able to identify.  My great grandmother, great aunts and uncles, pictures in England, pictures in Canada.  There is a picture of the Winnipeg flood, and one taken in Edmonton of Princess Elizabeth and her husband, Phillip, before she became our Queen.

            We are down to several pictures of unknown young men in British World War I uniforms.  On the back of one is written “To Dearest Olive, Love, Marty”.  My Mother had no relatives named Marty.  She thinks these men in uniform were former boyfriends of her own Mother who was just a teenager during the First World War.

            I know the collection in my box of photos gives me a pictorial history of a whole century.  So I will identify and record and catalogue and I will be the keeper of this past.  As I sat with my Mother, I could feel the presence of all these departed souls.  They were in the room with us, pleased to be remembered, perhaps reminding my Mother she is not forgotten and will one day be joining them.

            And yes, I know too that my Mother will one day step into my own memory in a photo and that will be all I have left of her.  So of course, I will be the keeper of this past.

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By Lisa A. Hatton