My Mother and Father
My mother was beautiful. I say “was,” because she passed away half a year ago, barely outliving my father by a fortnight. Though both were well past eighty, I can’t help but feel their time was far too short; they were, after all, my mum and dad.
Looking back now Mum truly was a beauty. I saw it myselfeven as her son, but also as a man. Dad never let me forget it either, reminding me all my life about how fortunate we were. Even when Mum was furious with me over poor grades or some other mishap, Dad would come into my room, sigh deeply, sit beside me, and press his hands between his knees, as I often did. Hed sigh again, and after a long silence, hed finish our quiet conversation like this:
Well, son, dont be cross with your mother. She shouted, she scolded you, but neither of us is exactly easy, and remember, shes still our girl. We need her like we need air. You ought to go and ask if shell forgive you.
At that, I would fill my lungs, ready to protest angrily and glare at Dad. He would anticipate this outburst, stretch out his hand, palm open towards meas if to silence meand say, firmly but kindly:
And dont you dare say anything bad about my wife!
Id deflate and keep quiet, simply because I dearly loved my father. And my mother, too. Both, with all my heart.
I suppose its because I know how they became husband and wife. Dad told me, in confidence, away from Mum. Mum told me, also in confidence, but away from Dad.
Mum was just a university fresher back then, and she was planning to marry someone named Edward. One day, Edward brought along his friend Brian to a date, since Brian had just arrived in our big city and didnt know how to spend the evening by himself. So Edward invited him to accompany himwell, to join the outing with his fiancée, or nearly so.
Edward introduced Brian to my future mother. Brian, as you might guess, was my soon-to-be father.
The three of them spent the whole evening togetherstrolling through the park, clambering onto the bandstand roof to watch a hilariously silly film showing at the open-air cinema (avoiding the ticket booth thanks to Dads clever thinking; Edward would never have thought of such mischief!). Dad helped Mum up there, being already broad-shouldered and strong, unlike Edward, whom I never met but somehow knew was a bit feeblenothing like Dad.
Edward spent the night reciting poems and making jokes, talking about how he and Mum would settle down after university. Dad, meanwhile, was quiet, merely listening and breathing heavily, as Mum described.
As the evening drew to a close, Dad took Mums petite, warm hand in his large, strong ones, and said simply:
Victoria, you dont need him. Marry me instead.
Mum was startled, and blurted:
When?
Dad, ever the resolute, replied at once:
Tomorrow.
And, just to finish off Mum(and Edward, too)added:
Well have a son, and well both love him fiercely. And, because of that, well love each other even more. And well name him Georgelike the old English kings.
Alright, I will, Mum agreed immediately, and so they got married.
Edward was best man at the wedding.
Afterwards, Mum and Dad finished university and moved off to Yorkshire, since their degrees marked them both as geologistsurveyor. There, amidst the dales, they were given their very first flat, which the mine manager ordered to be converted from an old storeroom, cluttered with all sorts of unwanted rubbish, attached to the local club.
In due course, the much-awaited George arrived (which was me). Mum and Dad loved me with all their might, just as Dad had promised Mum.
Dad begged the stable owner for an old mare named Alexandra, so he could bring Mum and me home from hospital.
As we rode up to our storeroom-home, Dad said, we found Edward standing on the club doorstep, arms wrapped around a galvanised baby bath. Hed procured it through some mighty connection. That bath became both my tub and, at first (Mum told it), my crib. Mum would line it with a big feather pillow, a gift from her mother, and cover it with a sheet. There Id lie. When it was bath time, the pillow would be temporarily laid on Mum and Dads bed, and I would have my soak. Dad would rush home from work, because bathingof me, not the old marehad to involve his presence. Hed hold my head, Mum recalled, while she performed the ritual washing of royal flesh.
Well, as it happens, I didnt quite become a king, but I did turn out a decent geologist, like my parents.
Most curious of all, my wife is a geologist as well. We met on the job, just out of university. Mum was fond of my Ann from the start. Dad, too, grew especially fond. Whenever they visited or we went to theirs, Dad and I would step out onto the balcony for a smoke and hed say:
Ah you know, I reckon I got lucky twice in life. First, meeting your mum, and second, when you married Ann. Take care of her, son; shes a girl, like our mum.
Dad passed away quite suddenly one night. Mum knew straight away, waking up
After he left us, Mum aged fast and started to forget thingsa lot. She even forgot Dad was gone. Even when we moved her in with us, shed sit by the window waiting for Dad to come home from work. Right until her last days, she prepared her famous chopped meat pattiesthe way Brian likes themOne afternoon, Ann and I found Mum sitting in her favorite armchair, hands folded in her lap, sunlight streaming through the curtains. She was gazing at a photographthe one where she and Dad stood on the bandstand roof, laughing, wind tousling Mums hair and Dads arm protectively around her shoulders. I crouched beside her and asked what she was thinking.
She smiled, her eyes bright for a moment. Your father is late again, she said, as if hed be home for supper any minute.
I took her hand. Hell be here soon, I said quietly.
She squeezed my fingers, her grip surprisingly strong. He always comes home. Always.
Ann knelt by us, joining her hand with ours, and we stayed there, connected, watching the sunlight shift across Mums face. Outside, the late-summer breeze rustled the leaves, and for a heartbeat, the world felt as simple as it must have when Dad first took Mums hand and promised her tomorrow.
In that silence, I finally understood: in the end, love doesnt count days or yearsit endures through memory, through old photographs, through the warmth of hands held together. My parents were gone, but their love remained, stitched into the fabric of my life, passing through me, through Ann, and someday, perhaps, through our own children. Mum dozed off smiling, and I sat with her, knowing Dad was right: we need her like we need air, and even when breath fades, love lingersquiet, steadfast, waiting to welcome us home.
