Vicki Addesso

Word Count 960

In my twenties, I moved out of my parents’ house. Once or twice a week, I would stop by to see my mother after work, before I met my friends at a bar or a restaurant. 

My father would be at work — he was a firefighter and sometimes worked night shifts — or upstairs in the bedroom, reading. From the foyer, I’d walk into the kitchen, through the dining room, and stand in the doorway to the living room. I’d see my mother before she knew I was there. She’d be sitting cross-legged on the sofa, slippers on the floor, crocheting a blanket that rested on her lap. Beside her on the table was the ashtray where her Winston cigarette burned, and a green glass beer mug. I’d see her in profile as she stared at the TV, her hands moving as if they had minds of their own. She’d pause, left hand reaching for the beer mug. She'd take a sip, put it back down on the table, pick up the cigarette and take a drag, put it back, and then her hands would resume crocheting, her eyes always on the television.

Watching, before she knew I was there, gave me a chance to see her as herself. Sometimes, she would seem so peaceful, I almost envied her. Other times, I would feel sorry for her. There I would be, on my way to meet friends, listen to music, dance, have fun, and there she would be, alone, with her crocheting and her TV and her cigarette and a beer.

After a minute or two, I’d say hi. She’d turn her head, and smile. What are you up to tonight? she’d ask, and I’d tell her my plans. What are you watching? I’d ask. I don’t even know, some stupid show, she’d say. I would sit beside her, close enough to feel her warmth. We’d talk about what we did during the day. She worked at the junior high school as a secretary. I worked at an art museum, a coordinator of public programs, at the state university nearby. I’d tell her about the current exhibits, the lecture series I was organizing. She’d tell me about a fight between two students outside her office, how she calmed the two boys down and kept them out of trouble. I loved looking at her hands, moving the whole time. Then I would tell her I had to leave. Have fun, she’d say, and reach for her beer. 

She died in 1997. I am older now than she ever was. Over the years I have been busy — marrying, raising two sons, working, writing, living — and the time I spend thinking about her is sporadic, skimming the surface of emotion. The memories have not faded, but I’ve been afraid to feel the extent of sorrow, of loss. After her death, I’ve kept her sitting in that living room, crocheting a blanket that goes on forever.

My mother never saw the house I live in now. She died before my husband, sons, and I moved in, the week of September 11th, 2001. Here I was, living in our new home, a place that my mother had never been, where her presence had never existed. Overwhelmed by emotions stemming from the attacks of 9/11, the move into our new house and the tamped down sorrow over my mother’s death, I fell into depression. I’d always been what others called “moody,” and I would experience periods of melancholy that could be paralyzing, but it wasn’t until this breakdown that I realized I was not a weak or spoiled person, but a person with an illness. I found a good doctor and treatment that worked.

Now, Covid-19. The damaging effects of the pandemic are not just the physical illness itself, but the psychological repercussions of fear and isolation. Being at home more, without the company of family or friends, the get-togethers and nights out, I was feeling lonely and afraid. Even though I had my husband with me, I needed comfort he could not provide. I needed my mother. I decided to bring her home, into my home, to visit.

I pretend she is here. I invite her in, to see the colors of our walls, the paintings, and photographs we have hung. We walk outside so I can show her the flowers I’ve planted in the backyard. Back inside, we sit by the bay window and look out at the trees and sky.

Yesterday, she surprised me, as I sat cross-legged on the sofa, my slippers on the floor, a magazine on my lap. She cleared her throat, startling me, and asked if she was bothering me. I told her of course not. I asked her to sit down next to me. She listened to me talk. About the wake I’d just gone to, a friend’s brother who had died from the coronavirus, and about the tears I was afraid to allow, because what if they did not stop. She’s a good listener. She told me, Let yourself cry, let it out, don’t be afraid; but then, make yourself laugh after. So I did.

The tears came, and went, and then I said, Mom, remember the time you were outside gardening and a bee flew up under the back of your shirt, and you came into the house yelling for help, and I was in the shower, and I came out wet and wrapped in a towel, and you stripped off your blouse, and I beat the yellow-jacket that was stuck by its stinger to your back with my towel, and you looked at me and said, Oh my god you’re stark naked, and we started laughing? She said yes, I remember, and again, we laughed.

Vicki is co-author of the collaborative memoir Still Here Thinking of You~A Second Chance With Our Mothers (Big Table Publishing, 2013). She has had work published in Gravel Magazine, Barren Magazine, The Writer, Sleet Magazine, Damselfly Press, The Feminine Collective, and Tweetspeak Poetry. A personal essay is included in the anthology My Body My Words, edited by Loren Kleinman and Amye Archer. You can follow Vicki on Twitter @VickiAddesso.