Huddled under heavy blankets, we sat circled around the blazing fire. Above us the waxing crescent moon glowed between tree branches beginning to bare and a star-filled sky that delighted us city dwellers. Our annual autumn gathering was underway.
Two of us became orphans in just the past month. Each lost a mother who’d more than nine decades including the Great Depression, multiple wars, and two waves of feminism. Years of our repeated ritual gave a sense of safety, so the sharing of stories started at once.
Gretchen painted a picture of her mother’s final years, months, and days, her voice slow and somber. Like Gretchen, Susan (called “Denver Susan” to avoid confusion), was deeply a devoted daughter. She stayed silent much of the time, but nodded in understanding often, occasionally describing moments from her mom’s dementia-filled days. Jan’s shared the beauty of bathing and oiling her father’s body after his death. Dorothy, the elder among, spoke in a soft voice that found me leaning in, both to aid my imperfect hearing and to capture her simple giant wisdom.
