Breaking bread, drinking wine, spinning time

I haven't been here since your father and I were here together.

No, she hasn't. It has been a while.

Where did that table come from?

You gave it to me.

I don't remember that.

I used to have it as my dining table, remember? I put the leaves down and now it's here.

It looks good here, but I don't think I've ever seen that table before.

Kathy and I look at each other with the smile we share often now, the one that says I'm shouldering this with you.

Come upstairs, Mom.

We escort her upstairs; she clings to me with one arm, the banister with the other. Upstairs she smiles.

You've done a lot.

Yes, Mom, yes I have.

She eyes the bar.

Would you like a drink, Mom?

The question is as unnecessary as if she'd asked me if I would. I pour a Scotch for her, bitters and a slice of orange, a glass of champagne for myself and the same for Kathy.

We go through the living room and upstairs to the bedrooms. She looks at the photos from my horse show days. Somewhere in her mind she remembers the horses, the competitions, the ribbons. She stands on the stair and studies them in watery recognition but cannot focus on the exactness. Moving on, she does recognize the photos in the upstairs hallway. Catherine, Edward, Uncle Peter, Dad, the professional sitting of my brother, sister and me when we were children, her bridal portrait, the photo of me young and wild haired sitting on my first pony. The photos of her as a child with her brother and mother, of she and my father on their honeymoon. These she remembers. She looks at each one and walks on, eyes as wide and sad as the full moon.

I know this is hard for her. Her daughter the photographer and she the mother who has never held much interest in photos. Watching her walk through my halls it's no wonder. A series of people she loves and has lost, if not to the passing of time that takes us from innocent laughter to wisened sighs, then those she's lost to death.

You always liked pictures, Alison. You know you share that with your father, he always liked pictures too.

I do know, and I smile at her words, happy that it passed on to me. Happy to hear it again.

I don't remember that picture of your father. It's a good picture but I don't remember it.

I don't remember it either; I found it after his death when I spent months obsessing over all his boxes of photos. He in that red dinner jacket, the glass of wine in his hand, perfectly manicured nails, the watery sparkle in his blue eyes. We stand before it, both hoping it was us he was looking at like that.

She shakes her head and moves with me through the rest of the rooms. A part of her is nicked by these photos of her life and loves; a bit of blood trickles from her heart the rest of the evening.

All through dinner we share stories. Travels, Paris, airplanes, childhood, New York. She's all here, all mine, all ours. She's missing him and embracing us. She's sad and perfect and fragile. It's a fight for her to be here, to be awake and aware and present. But she wants this, and she's trying, bless her, she is trying. They become special, the times like this.

When its time to leave, she glances across the room, says, I haven't been here since your father and I were here together.

I hold her hand and sigh. No, Mom, no you haven't.