| OCR Text |
Show A PROPER INTRODUCTION-26 being asked. Dad's eyes are a l i t t le red, but his voice is matter-of-fact as he explains how they let Mother go, avoiding "heroic" measures, and how the doctors said it was a blessing. She is probably already cremated, he says, for it was to be done immediately following the autopsy. The parlor agreed to give us the ashes if we bought an urn from them or provided one of our own. "Laura was there at the end," he said, "and your mother thought she was you, called her by your name." "What did she say?" "I forget exactly." There is a short silence, then he explains that two days ago Paul left to go backpacking in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and he doesn't have much hope of finding him in time for the service. The room looks dull. Dad's old easy chair and the sofa on which Mother used to nap, curled inside her woolen afghan, look odd in this house, although my parents lived here for almost six years-lived but never moved in. Little touches are missing: the driftwood Mother used to put on the mantle above the fireplace, her arrangements of dried weeds, l i t t le crystal bowls, and wooden coasters on the tables. There are rings on the coffee table now, burns too. The marbie-topped table across from the fireplace is bare and dusty loking. Suddenly I know what is missing most: her dancers. Mother loved the Dresden ballerinas the most of all her nice things. "They look so free-so delighted!" she used to exclaim, telling us over and over how the precious procelain gave them a glow like shining spirits, from the inside out. She would glow then too, as if from some inner vision. |
