To Refrain from the Ineffectual
The first time I met Baseball Tom's mother, I was struck by the similarities of their smiles. It was the sixteenth of June, 2007 - funny how dates stick in our minds, sometimes - but it was the day of my first game at Fenway, and the last day of my relationship with he-that-had-been My-Very-Own-Horsey-Man, and so I remember. She dropped Tom off and picked him up in my driveway, and we hugged. She was going to Nashua to visit her parents and her brothers while Tom and I were at the game.
The second time I met her was thirteen months and a cancer diagnosis later. She had lost more pounds than I weigh. We sat on her porch, talking about Tom, while she smoked a cigarette. We hugged. I didn't recognize her.
The third time I met her was in November, when I drove up to Portland to bring Tom some things he'd left at school. She weighed about 90 pounds, and wore slippers although it was one o'clock in the afternoon. When she hugged me, I was careful not to squeeze her. I could feel where her ribs met her spine. My mother was with me, that time, to share some of the driving. When we left, my mom told me, "I think she wants to make it until the spring."
She lived through the first three days of spring, but she wasn't awake to see them. Tomorrow, when I meet her again, we will not embrace. She will be ashes, and Tom will be broken.
This last time that I see her, like the first time, will be when she is en route to Nashua: not to visit, this time, but to stay. The grass will grow over her, quietly, as the rest of the world attempts to reassemble itself. I can't put the pieces back together for Tom, although if I could I would do almost anything. All I can do is refrain from saying "I'm sorry," prevent myself from sending flowers, and take him away from the wake for an hour or so to eat pizza alone, to laugh for a moment, and maybe to cry a little. I am under no delusions. Of course it won't be enough. Pizza cannot restore a mother, a family, and a home. Nothing can rebuild a woman named Cathy. I'd be foolish to try.
The second time I met her was thirteen months and a cancer diagnosis later. She had lost more pounds than I weigh. We sat on her porch, talking about Tom, while she smoked a cigarette. We hugged. I didn't recognize her.
The third time I met her was in November, when I drove up to Portland to bring Tom some things he'd left at school. She weighed about 90 pounds, and wore slippers although it was one o'clock in the afternoon. When she hugged me, I was careful not to squeeze her. I could feel where her ribs met her spine. My mother was with me, that time, to share some of the driving. When we left, my mom told me, "I think she wants to make it until the spring."
She lived through the first three days of spring, but she wasn't awake to see them. Tomorrow, when I meet her again, we will not embrace. She will be ashes, and Tom will be broken.
This last time that I see her, like the first time, will be when she is en route to Nashua: not to visit, this time, but to stay. The grass will grow over her, quietly, as the rest of the world attempts to reassemble itself. I can't put the pieces back together for Tom, although if I could I would do almost anything. All I can do is refrain from saying "I'm sorry," prevent myself from sending flowers, and take him away from the wake for an hour or so to eat pizza alone, to laugh for a moment, and maybe to cry a little. I am under no delusions. Of course it won't be enough. Pizza cannot restore a mother, a family, and a home. Nothing can rebuild a woman named Cathy. I'd be foolish to try.