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Show A PROPER INTRODUCTION-37 in my throat. I have become my mother and there is no way I can say so. I don't think anyone notices. If I can just accept being this alone and understand what this means, that she is no longer gone, that I am no longer gone from her, that I am forgiven. For what seeems a long time, I sit very still. Then I get up and direct the circle's attention to the little shrine of dancers, photo, and hymnal. The pale, almost unrecognizable faces in the circle seem to look at me and the objects briefly, but the light is behind them and their eyes are in shadow. Everyone nods politely and Dad suggests that we all try to get some sleep. As promised, the service is brief and simple, with no talk of Mother except for her name, at the beginning, between the Lord's Prayer and the Twenty-Third Psalm, and just before the benediction. No one wears black; in fact, every woman seems to have made it a point to wear bright colors-a celebration if only we could share it. "It was a blessing," everyone is saying. "I had no idea she was so i l l , " says Melissa, an old friend Mother had known in Rome. "I just didn't listen to her very well, and I'm so sorry." Someone else comments that she'd gone faster than was expected. Most say how sorry they are that Paul can't be found. "Yes, thank you, of course..." I say, searching each face to see if anyone might really want to talk about her. I don't find such a person, at least not one I recognize. I read someplace that ashes ought to be scattered before sunset of the day of the memorial service, so I hurry the guests out of the house and gather up my father and the urn. It is a ritual that needs privacy. We drive to a secluded section of Rock Creek, a little uneasy about our plan. But where else can we go? |