Mama, Hold My Hand

All I need to do is reach for her hand and hold it. That memory would last longer than the twenty minute drive we have to the airport. The moment continues to slip with the pass of every stop light.

Mom’s anxiety on the road is bad these days, she prefers backroads to the freeway. She struggles giving up the control of the wheel, but would rather not drive when someone else can. Every turn, sudden acceleration, unexpected brake, and switching of lanes is met with a held breath and white-knuckled righthand grasp of the arm rest. It doesn’t make driving her around a pleasant experience and me leaving again doesn’t make it any easier.

Most of the ride is silent, which is fine with me. I’m keeping more to myself these days, attempting to untangle my own thoughts. When I’m gone, she texts to check in, to remind me to be happy and that she loves me, not that I ever doubted it. I respond that I’m fine and that I love her too and appreciate her checking in, which I do. I’d strike up a conversation now, but the words don’t come; instead I change the radio station and raise the volume, but leave it quiet enough for her to talk if she wants to.

She brings up conversations we’ve had throughout the week, but she prefers that to silence and I listen. She brings up her concerns about the family being apart and how she misses everyone being together, how she’s looking forward to watching her grandchildren, how she keeps busy by volunteering at the church, walking around Walmart or some other department for exercise and to get out of the house, how she misses grandma and still thinks of her everywhere she goes, the places they used to. She’s never had this much time on her own before.

Last time I visited and we talked, well we didn’t talk, I’m not so good at that, I wrote to her, it’s somewhat cowardly, but it’s easier to express myself that way. I mentioned how all this free time isn’t always good. She’s spent much of her life caring for everyone as a mother, a teacher, a principal, a caregiver to my grandparents until they passed. Suddenly she has all this free time to do something for herself but she’s never done that before. She might not know where to start so nothing ever does. I wrote that I understand and how I struggle with that, I’ve been going through it for three years since quitting my job. I had plans of writing a book, finding a good job, getting involved in the community, doing something better than what I was doing before. Instead, I’ve wasted a lot of time, most of it on my own. It’s hard motivating myself, it gets depressing at times, I feel lethargic, at times worthless, like I’m wasting away and I have no one to blame but myself; I wanted to warn her. She told me she was thankful for what I wrote and how she’s nervous about it. That was months ago.

Her hand rests on the middle console when it isn’t clenching her knee. One weekend in Michigan, before my parents moved to Texas, while I visited, we, her and I, rode around like this home from lunch. Then, like now, was mostly quiet. The only words I had for her where in a song I told her I wanted to play her by Aloe Blacc, “Mama Hold My Hand”. We rode in silence like we are now, but I reached for her hand, small and soft, warm and eager for connection. We listened to the story of a mother and a son growing old together. As a child, the mother took care of him, holding his hand as she guided him. When he was old enough, he wanted to be left alone to prove he could do it on his own, that he didn’t need her anymore. As a grown man he realizes how much he still needs her, even more than before, and she needs him, to take care of her and hold her hand as he returns to help. At the end of the song she wipes the tears from her eyes with her free hand and I did my best to hold mine back. She told me she loved it and asked if I could play it again. She squeezed my hand tighter, mouthing the words she memorized, tears streaked down her cheek. She said thank you when we made it home.

I watched her hand move from her knee back to the console throughout the entire ride. I want to hold her hand, knowing that little gesture would say everything I wasn’t. Everything I couldn’t find the words to. Telling her I’m here for her. I’m OK and she will be too and I’m listening and I understand. It’d mean the world to her. She would hold tighter, keeping me as close as she could for as long as I’d let her. Her hands, small and soft, warm and eager for connection. We would sit in silence and she’d cry, while mine would water, like they do when we arrive to the airport and say our goodbyes, I love yous, and I’ll miss yous. I assure her I’ll text when I land. I’m trying not to dwell on the missed opportunity. We both needed it, the way we need each other, but I kept my hands to myself and didn’t look back.

As the plane takes off the only words I that come are the words I could never bring myself to say, “I’m sorry.”