OCR Text |
Show Go Love/177 Thirteen copies of Elvis Sings Gospel on cd, stacked beside Jimmy's silver pistol on the night stand And beneath that, just off to the side away from the bed, Mama's fake leather briefcase with its little three-digit-combination lock and double fake brass latches. It sits in a cleaned out spot, the only dustless thing inhabiting my mother's life Lupus got her forced into retirement from the state a few years earlier-this was her work briefcase, what she took on trips to conventions in big cities-San Diego, Chicago, Atlanta-hotels with views, good lighting, happy hour hors d'orvers and jazz on the veranda. Places away from O.W. Ocho Rios-eight rivers, places, friends. Inside an organizer notebook I find about thirteen unofficial variations of her last will and testament, and a draft of her funeral service, planned out in detail before the last operation. She was sure that was the big one and had mailed everyone she knew last letters, farewell sweetnesses, to Lara she sent a talking photo of her and O.W that repeated Mama saying I love vou. I love you, I love you Lara'd scotch taped the button down and the thing said its love all night long until it malfunctioned and went mute. The scar tissue in Mama's abdomen had blocked a stomach artery, though the docs all said that in her state, going under was a big risk, that she should get her life in order. So she did. We got phone calls and emails and notes. One box overflowed with faded spring jonquils and dogwood leaves Pictures of forsythia in the snow I'm convinced she reached out to everyone that way, maybe even Shawn Terrence Lord off in California who'd turned his back when I snapped the picture, his curly hair falling down over his collar. Mama'd insured herself to the bone, and she had her state retirement and medicare; cash was to be set aside for each grandchild, college funds, a modest inheritance for each of us. "Let Joey speak for the family," one draft says, and names all the pallbearers. She lists songs-Willy Nelson "Angel |