And Jacob was left alone, and there wrestled a man until the
breaking of the day.
-Genesis 32:24
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (My God!)
my God
-Gerard Manley Hopkins
I
No one ever told me
that grief felt so like fear.
-CS Lewis
But then my eyes
fall, for I see that which I had not considered.
I remember it like
it was tomorrow.
At the end of the
terminal, as I turn the corner, my Mom sits a shadow of her former self—frail,
ghostly, white. Her long blond hair is
now short, thin, curly, gray. Her flushed
face is now pale, emaciated, withered, tired.
Her arms are frail and bony, they struggle into the air. Her once-firm belly bulges beneath her
medical gown, but not with life. She
always looked young for her age; now she’s old before her time.
Tears stream from
her eyes—her lifetime of reserve is broken.
No mascara streaks, no make-up, no figure-flattering dress, her native
vanity has vanished, for she’s too far beyond such things now. She forces her feet to stand and support her
weight one last time, in a Herculean effort to embrace her returning son.
And I falter.
Dear God in heaven.
I don’t even
recognize her.
I take a
breath. I bite my lip. I force eye contact and step forward.
Quickly now, lest
they catch you pausing. Absently I
adjust my tie, then my flapping suit jacket (I’ve lost a lot of weight), I reposition
my shoulder bag. For the first time in
two years, Goosebumps ripple up and down my spine.
I can feel hers
through her loose-fitting gown.
Carefully I embrace her—gently now, or she’ll crumble in your
hands! A stiff breeze might blow her
away. Her hands are now limp and weary
as they wrap awkwardly around my back; she places her palms on the precise spot that for months now
contorts me in pain if touched too hard, but I don’t even feel a thing. She whispers hoarsely, “I’m so glad you’re
home, I love you so much…” or something some such, I don’t know, I’m not really
listening, I’m distracted. She exhales
deeply. She is at ease, she is at peace.
All mine is
gone.
As uncomfortable
as I am—as much as I want to throw her off and sprint down the terminal, past
baggage claim and into the night screaming in shock and rage at this
blasphemy—still I let her hold me as long as she wants, while I take deep
breaths and force a mumbled “I love you too Mom.” Finally, of her own volition, she unwraps and
his helped back into the wheelchair. I
force a smile, pose for some pictures, greet the other well-wishers and grip
their hands—for a flash I’m ashamed of the relief I feel at their firm, healthy
grips. They comment on my deep tan, my
Spanish accent, all as I nod and try violently to remember their names. I almost forget to embrace my own Father, and
my brother’s near an afterthought.
At baggage claim,
I stare for my luggage like I would for a sniper, a mountain lion, or a
life-raft, something to lunge at and grasp, to engross my attention for even 10
whole seconds, and not have to torture myself with the question of whether or
not I should incline my head slightly towards the right at the frail woman
breathing heavily in the wheel chair (Dios
el Padre that’s my Mother, isn’t it!)
and say something, anything, to
her before she drifts unconscious, and run the risk of appearing to my
relatives as either callous or a blubbering mess, and I resent deeply that I
suddenly care what others think of me again—
Mercifully my
luggage tumbles down the carousel. I snatch for it like a drowning man. Before anyone else can small-talk, I march
out the revolving doors. Dad pulls up
the car. Mom is carefully helped into
the front seat, while I give the well-wishers strong hugs of gratitude and
good-bye. Planes roar over the Oregon
clouds. Soon the sun will rise in the
Caribbean, but here it’s still mid-night.
I shiver again, and I don’t know if it’s from the cold or if it’s a
shudder. I get in the car last.
And Abraham
ascended Mount Moriah.
Or am I
Isaac? No.
I am Jacob.
To Be Continued
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