My Mother Moved In With Me. The Problem is She’s Been Dead for Twenty Years.
Okay, look. My mother got cremated in 2001, and she is now in an urn. What’s left of her. But she isn’t done with me.
I’ll bet you can relate, too, you women over sixty, over seventy.
This morning when I woke up at the Stella Maris Hotel here in Tanzania with the rain pounding on the metal roof outside. The big bus ready for Kili climbers would roll out in a few hours, without me in it, as I’m not ready for a return trip as yet.
However, my mother was indeed with me, at least once I got my teeth in. So there she was, staring back at me.
I nearly shit myself. Then I laughed my mother’s laugh, that body-shaking, full-throated laugh that was her hallmark and which she bequeathed to me.
I’d been doing just fine these 68 years, being a likely combination of my parents, and at some point rather recently, Mom moved in and took over my face.
The way I see it, look. My mother died in 2001, having made it to the 21st Century as she had wanted, having had her sex life reinvigorated, albeit briefly, in her eighties (okay, there’s hope), and then she passed with a smile on her face, in her sleep, after sharing dirty limericks…
