The Laughing-Ladies

I felt somewhat guilty for missing my mother. For grieving for her. Trouble was that she wasn’t dead yet.

Uncle Tom always said my mom had been vaccinated with a phonograph needle. I’m pretty sure he was right. No one enjoyed talking more than Mom. Around her hometown, she was known, along with her group of retired ladies-that-lunch, as one of “The Laughing-Ladies.”

Whenever I got to go spend a few days with Mom, The Laughing-Ladies insisted I tag along on their forays. We ate out every day. We played cards on Friday nights. We shopped and went to gospel concerts. Mom and I often stayed up late talking. She loved to tell the old stories. “Remember when you were four years old and Grannie…” she always began.

Then, Mom got sick. It happened slowly at first. Over the next few years, Parkinson’s, a cruel taskmaster, confined Mom to an assisted-lift chair and her bed. It became difficult to understand her words, so she didn’t talk much. Medications drained her vivacious spirit. She rarely laughed.

It wasn’t the running-around fun I missed. I longed for the talks, the laughing, her cheerful spirit. Then, as if she sensed my mood, she would say in her scratchy voice, “Remember when you were four years old? Tell me that story.” I held her crippled hand and began, “That time when I was four, Grannie took me to…”