Death of the Matriarch
by John F. Dillon
My father purchased the land in the early part of the twentieth century. Set in the middle of a large tobacco field and surrounded by a white picket fence, the farmhouse was a typical two-story, wood-framed, country dwelling with a wide front porch. The building was equipped with central heating but, for the longest time when I was a boy, we relied on the big fireplace in the living room and the potbelly stove in the kitchen for warmth in the winter. Eventually, the city ran electricity and gas lines to the country.
My parents spent summer evenings in wicker rocking chairs on the porch, drinking sweet tea while watching the children chase fireflies.
There was one long, dirt road that ran from the highway to the house. Years ago, before we connected to city water, Pop had a well dug in the middle of the front yard. He framed it in wood and covered it with a thatch roof that leaked when it rained. The well had a large metal handle and a rope tied to a bucket, but they were only for show as within the wood frame, a two and a half horsepower pump drew water to a spigot on the side. You could only see the spigot from a certain angle. It was not visible from the house or the entrance road to the property. In time, we only used the well to water the lawn and wash our cars and a plainly visible yellow hose was always attached to the spigot.
Except for the small vegetable garden on the side of the house, we never worked the land and after my fathers death, Mom supplemented her income by leasing the field to share croppers.
My older brothers Ralph and Will, my elder sister Rose, and I remained in house until adulthood then, in due course, one by one we left and Mom was alone. Will the oldest, was the first to leave. He joined the Army after high school and married shortly before his discharge and moved to Richmond.
Rose married after graduating from nursing school, and moved to town. Ralph left for College and, except for an occasional visit, seldom returned. I was the youngest and last to leave. There had been others in the family; an infant that died suddenly before his first birthday and a brother I never knew that gave way to Leukemia before I was born.
A little over a year or so ago, Mom had a stroke. A short time later, while still in the hospital she suffered a heart attack. Upon leaving the hospital, we moved her from the house to her sister, Lucy's home in town. Her health continued to decline. After a short hospital stay, Mom gathered us about the hospital bed. She told us she had lived a full life and it was time to go. "I do not want to die in a hospital," she said. "I want to go home."
Her long life had been a mixture of joy, laughter, sadness, and many tears. Through the years she had become captive of a large body succumbing to pains of age. Her mind retained fond memories of close friends, family, and children she would never again see and an agonizing desire to be with those that passed before her. So, with the concurrences of her doctors, we acceded to her wishes and took her back to the house for her final days. Rose volunteered to remain with her.
Aunt Lucy and Rose followed the ambulance from the hospital. I came later in the day. Will, his wife and son arrived on the second day. Ralph and his wife Helen pulled in later that evening. They left the infant with Helen's mother.
It was late spring and all of us were in that house again quietly waiting. The chirping of birds and scent of the fresh plowed earth masked the fact an end was near. Hospice arranged for a special bed in the living room and friends and neighbors came to say goodbye. Even that projected a dreamlike atmosphere. The stroke had not affected Mom's speech or her sense of humor and she seemed to relish sitting in the tilted bed and greeting everyone that came to visit. Most of the time she slept while we sat silently in overstuffed chairs or on the large sectional sofa along the far wall and stared at the fireplace. The leather recliner, Her chair, was never used. Evenings were spent sipping sweet tea and talking in hush tones on the porch.
On the final day of Mom's life, I woke to the sounds of footsteps scuffling to the single bathroom, the smell of coffee wafting from below, along with the undistinguished hum of muted speech. It was the birth of a beautiful day. Birds were in full song in the big tree outside my window and although I searched while waiting for the bathroom to empty, the branches had already matured to their seasonal greenery and the birds were well concealed in the foliage.
Rose's husband John had called earlier in the evening to say there was a five car pileup on the Route 231 Bypass, so we weren't concerned about his absence. Sometime during the early morning he arrived with their son Sean, his wife Pat and their two-year-old son Matthew. The boy had slept though it all and was bursting with energy when they arrived.
Will was sitting with wife Janice and when I came down to breakfast. Helen was in the vestibule whispering to her mother on the telephone.
There was an unspoken sense of premonition as we sat at the familiar wooden table and, although each in turn proclaimed not to be hungry, we devoured the huge breakfast Rose and Aunt Lucy had prepared. At last, the women cleared the table and we all huddled about the lady in the hospital bed. Without a word being said, we all somehow knew this would be Mon's final day.
As the morning passed moved toward midday the men moved outdoors to the wooden porch. Some stood by the railing while others sat in wooden deck chairs or the large wicker rocking chairs with the colorful seat cushions. Time passed and visitors arrived. More visitors arrived throughout the morning. Some like the tenant farmer, Wily Roberts, and his wife and daughter drove up in their large, late model pickup with its gloss finish obscured by dust from the dirt road. The woman carried woven picnic baskets that were opened a short time after noon its contents lavishly spread on the large wooden table that dominated the kitchen. Somehow, against a refrain of, "Couldn't possibly eat... well ...maybe, I'll try just a taste." The tabletop was emptied by early afternoon.
And so it continued into the afternoon. Some visitors left and were replaced by others. There were little conversation and we inwardly welcomed the antics of little Mathew, Mom's great-great grandson, who had not fully mastered the ability to walk. Periodically one of women would appear behind the door screen and in a hushed voice, provide updates on Mom.
The men would nod , grunt, "Thank you," and retreat into silence. Sometimes the screen door opened and one of the women would ask if we needed anything. This was usually followed by a hushed harmony of, "No thank you," before she would return to her vigil.
Sometime later I went inside, crouched before the bed and whispered I love you, to the body whose functions had been slowly shutting down. I felt slight quivers of life passing from her hand to mine. She was very weak and I was not sure she could hear. In time her mouth formed a gradual smile and, without turning her head, she softly murmured, "I love you too."
"Do you want a Priest?" I whispered.
I detected movement, a twitch in the corners of her lips. I lowered my ear to her mouth. In a voice that stopped and started and caused me to continue to adjust as it faded, she whispered, "Jackie, I always believed you paid for your sins here on earth. You and only you know what they are... Many wouldn't consider them worth mentioning... some slights, maybe something you did maliciously to hurt someone ...one that once committed was easily overlooked by others. Yet, you could not forget. They're the ones that could not be forgiven. You knew.... And somehow you paid." She stopped and I thought she had finished. Her head moved slightly as she fought to fill her lungs. I was about to straighten when I heard, "No Jackie, I don't need some stranger in a white collar to tell me my sins are absolved." With those words her face softened and her eyes closed.
My eyes filled. I lowered my eyes and sobbed, "I love you Mom."
Although she had slipped into darkness, I felt she had heard. I rose and left her with the women that monitored her every movement.
While the men remained on the porch and the women maintained their steady vigil, the day advanced with moderate temperatures and just an occasional wisp of a cloud overhead. In the late afternoon, one of the woman appeared behind the screen and summoned the us with a hushed, "Better come in now."
After five minutes of standing about and watching, Rose proclaimed they were mistaken and Mom still had some time to go. The men returned to the porch.
A short while later in the early dusk of evening, we were summoned again. Word passed quickly and the room filled about the bed. The immediate family stood about the bed's railing while rows of distant relatives and friends assembled, most with bowed heads.
As I gazed at the woman propped in the large portable hospital bed, I was reminded of photographs of Britain's ninetieth century monarch, Queen Victoria. Her eyes were closed and her lined face relaxed, free from the pain that had plagued her later years. The quiver I felt earlier was gone and her hand was still. Occasionally, her mouth parted and there was the soft sound of air passing between her lips. A few seconds later, the air would expel in a soft puff.
I stood with my hand on hers. Then, as I watched I suddenly knew I just witnessed the final puff of life leave Mom's parted lips. Although Rose leaned forward, delicately placed her fingers on Moms throat, and murmured, "It's over," I knew. And the certainty of knowledge left me numb. There were no words no sadness, no tears... no feeling.At last, I turned and walked outside.
Ralph and Will followed soon to be joined by others. We stood silently in front of the wooden rail and awaited the lady from Hospice. There I remained, in a stupor, as people came and left.
And night fell. The quarter moon reached its apex and seemed to hang over the entrance to the property when in a scene so surreal one could only stand and watch: dust rose from the dirt road and began performing a chaotic dance and suddenly the sound of a motor preceded the oncoming headlights of a long white ,luxurious sedan that appeared out of the blackness. The limousine drove to the opening in the fence; entered, turned, and backed to the steps of the porch. It was Moms chariot.
I smiled. The Queen would have liked that, I thought when it took her away.
The following morning, I awoke thinking something would be different. There was the sounds of footsteps scuffling to the single bathroom, the smell of bacon cooking and coffee wafting from below, and even the undistinguished sound of muted speech. The birds were still chirping from the big tree outside my window. Nothing was different except...Mom was gone and nothing would ever be the same.
The End
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