On just that ordinary day, I felt great. Deceived by the lumps I could not see, nor even feel when I hugged those I loved, every so dearly. Later that day would become my history, I Marry Duval, have since buried 2 out of my three children, all three had cancer, my third is still going strong, yet having over four types of cancer invading her beautiful body. If I could have foreseen this, I would not have changed a moment of my life. As all families have troubles, some sorrow, their deaths those quite tragic and sad, did not leave me empty. I had been blessed with three beautiful children, who taught me unconditional love, brought me closer everyday to this undeniable faith that love exist. My husband, the man I went to sleep with every night, even after his soul was left roaming above my shaking head, I loved with every ounce of juice that flowed through my undying body.
I sometimes lie awake at night, staring at my cluttered room, filled with old papers, hats, the history of me, and wonder how the eldest of three girls managed to stay so healthy, when the youngest died of cancer, and the middle is dealing with a stroke after surviving cancer. I was blessed to be alive, to have a family, love, all of the above. But, the toss up was watching everyone I love pass before my eyes. Looking in the mirror above my beauty stand; my mother smiles at me, I am now that little girl, running after those two little terrors I call my sisters. Momma knows how it upsets me that they have all the suitor’s and the luck, oh the luck they have with boys. Even at the wee age of 13. I stand there looking back into her eyes, as her hands slowly disappear as they reach out and grace my shoulders as if to tell me everything will be ok. But I know my mind will never be right, I will always have those memories, not regret, nor disdain, but a little sadness. I was never as beautiful, or elegant, had the suitors or the luck; but I got to live; while everyone else just blew away as dust on a faded old black and white image.
It was late July; Saratoga was getting ready for the craziness of the race track. I could hear the horses stamping around as if they owned the town. For these next 6 weeks; I was at the delight of weary travelers, excited youth and jockey’s too short to reach the bar stool at my daughter’s watering whole. I had yet to enter her establishment, but this aching, gust wrenching knot, tangled my stomach, I knew her days were growing short, thus I drove my Cadillac to the Alley. As I walked through that, chipped, painted, wooden door, her smile greeted me as it had for 46 years. She found a stable chair for my bony but to relax in while she brought me my scotch, oh how I love my scotch. I begged her to join me, but she was the queen of the castle, running backwards and forwards tending to her people and keeping everyone all smiles. I shot down my drink and with my wrinkled, peeling, ancient hands I waved goodbye. My voice fell short of, nor did it know how to say goodbye. My one daughter was soon to meet the cold, damp soil, which wraps her two brothers so tight. What could I say that was not already known? She knew I loved her, would miss her, wanted to kiss her wrinkled, aging cheek. But, I could not re-tell her everything she knew, for empty words they would feel as they escaped my dried, rosy red lips. Off I went back home to rest.
I swung my backdoor open, as it smashed against the wall, the glass shattered everywhere. Crystal like, my floor was a rainbow, I wanted to leave the beautiful colors, but as I tried to step over the glass I sliced my foot. Hurried into the bathroom, I grabbed a washcloth. The blood soaked through, as if I was a soldier wounded in battle whose heart was penetrated, leaving a ring of red on the trampled, burned ground. The glass, no longer a beautiful rainbow it is now stained with my blood. In that moment as I stared at the stained tiled kitchen floor, I thought of my granddaughter who would have to deal with her mother and wondered how she would get by. Having her father, me, and her recent female partner was ok, but no one can replace the bond between a mother and daughter. Severed by death, may leave Carol empty. The remembrance of my mother, that day she passed, still lingers in my thoughts. I could have been there, but instead I was angry with her for not giving my children the time I felt they needed. My sister had more children thus needed our mother more. I was jealous of my two sister’s and that anger kept deep within my heart until we were all we had. As I grew old, and somewhat wiser in my years, I discovered it was not their fault, they were simply born and physical beauty is a god given right, at birth. Except with all the plastic surgery these days; which neither of them endured, they were beautiful and at least one of them had a life desired by many.
I could recall my youngest sister, the bruises on her forearms, the dark rings around her eyes, the stained walls in her house, but why bring up that troubled marriage. She entered her life with such joy, became bitter, lonely, four children fatherless. I was known to this, but what could I do? I spent my adulthood as the onlooker, stuck in a roaming bubble, which would never pop. I grazed over the heads of scared children, fearful wives, the innocent and the guilty, all I had were my ears to listen, and my voice was never loud enough for anyone to take serious. As I stood in my kitchen remembering those days, I grew tired and headed to my room for an afternoon nap.
I was woken up by a rush of cold air. That knawing in my stomach was full force and aggressively growing. I sat up as a tear trickled down my pasty, creased, pimpled skin. Bringing forefingers to dry, I noticed how aged I had become. Maybe my time was drawing near as well. If I got to pass between the two worlds before my daughter I could greet her by the gates, as she had greeted me by my perfect, white bedroom door for 46 years. We could, as mother and daughter, embrace those pearly clouds, and ride the wind until we became stars, lighting the path for our future grandchildren. I hated the thought of burying one more, or worse, her and my sister. It pain’s me to see my speechless sister, eager to talk with her mind unable to connect, though she has more to say then most. When she opens we mouth cold air is released, a quiet OOOOOM sound.
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