Dear Blog Followers,

I recently submitted this piece to a publication, with a requirement of 800 words of text. Cutting 700 words or so from the original piece was not an easy task. However, in the end, I think the piece’s rhythm flows better, and, perhaps, the emotion is even sadder. What do you think?

In Mom’s home, I know where everything is kept. She puts her possessions in their own, particular place. Don’t move them, or, God forbid, who knows what she’ll do! I know how she folds towels, in thirds, which is different than how I fold mine, in fourths. I know where she stores her cream-colored coffee cup as the cup sits upside-down on its saucer, with a red rim faded by age.

Mom’s bills, receipts, scams directed to the elderly, tax returns, bank statements, doctor’s appointments, are all handled by me. I shop for her, shop with her, take care of her car and home. When she loses a job, I make the weekly call to the state’s unemployment service to process a $52 payment. I read her brother’s will aloud and Mom listens quietly, hangs on to my every word. The only movements are her dark eyes that fervently dart back and forth from the legal document to my lips.

I research about junk I don’t want to know about, for subsidies and sales, to help Mom squeeze every penny from a Social Security income. Scrimp and save, Dear, Sweet, Jesus!

“Mom, you can save eight bucks a month for telephone service with a senior discount!”

We discuss supermarket circulars to find bargains on broccoli rabe and Sclafani tomato. We shop on Wednesdays to access markdowns. She thrills to save a dollar.

“At least I get something for being old, goddamn it,” she laughs.

The applications for senior citizens’ property tax assistance and for prescription aid in conjunction with Medicare are filled out by me. I take Mom to the senior center to apply for state assistance with electricity. We learn that ten grand in a savings account is the eligible limit. She has twenty grand, a gift from her brother, Pippi, before he passed away, as he started to distribute his sisters’ future inheritance of $1.7 million, as stated in his will.

“Jeanne, you should write a book on how to help seniors. How would I figure this out? Seniors could use the help.” She believes I could do such a thing easily.

“I don’t want to write a book about that,” I say. What do I want to write about, I wonder? We look at a display case in the hallway, filled with helmets and medals from World War II veterans.

“My brother fought in World War II and got a Purple Heart,” says Mom.

“Yes, I know. I’ve been researching Uncle Pippi’s military history. He was the only American officer on the 38th Parallel when the Chinese crossed the border in the Korean War. He was in the Korean Military Advisory Group as an advisor to the 12th and 17th ROK Regiments.” As of late, we’re in the midst of a court case contesting Pippi’s will. I’ve taken to searching for all I can find out about him.

Mom stores a blanket under a couch cushion and shoves bills in a magazine rack. She keeps Pippi’s will in a dresser. She loses things and accusations fly. An angel ornament and a tube of hand cream have gone astray. She bitches behind my back and to me directly.

Sometime later, I empty out Mom’s home, as she moves to an assisted living facility. Her home is quiet. I don’t play the radio because I listen for my mother’s voice to call me, tell me to put the coffee on, or demand an order to relinquish dishes from a cabinet to set the table for supper.

It’s hard to go through an aging mother’s things. It’s even harder when she’s your mother-friend-child-enemy. I save my children’s notes.

Happy Birthday, Nana!
Nana, do you want to have a sleep-over, go for pizza, swim in the pool, give me a hug, see my school play, paint my fingernails shocking pink, sew a button on my shirt?
I love you, Nana!

I go through shoes, clothes, old, old, old pots and pans, stacks of dishes enough to feed an army with, suntan lotion, beach towels, pocketbooks, garden tools, ten cans of Chock Full O’ Nuts coffee, food in the fridge…anyone want a frozen turkey? I search, search, search for an answer, a sign of love, an explanation of the mixed, witch’s potion of meanness and love that my mother has dished out over me.

Boxes of Christmas ornaments sit in the nearly empty livingroom. They are covered with hand-written messages, in Mom’s marker scrawl. Paranoia is part of dementia.

“Keep out BITCH. Don’t you know GOD sees you! Keep out of my things. FUCK. BITCH.” These same messages are written on shoeboxes, a sewing box, on a paper note in a dresser. The orders scream at me, belittle me to dust, crush me to garden listlessness, a winter garden of no use.