Jeremiah's School of Levitation

Here's a little bit of somewhat fiction that I wrote some time back, apparently just so I could have something to post in a pinch or just in hope that the Friday word would happen to be "lake".

MY MOTHER, THE LAKE

Lakes scare me. I don't know why. The bodies of water, sitting still, amidst the woods, nestled in the mountains, or spread across a prairie or stretched across tundra or snow-skinned fields, they all scare me, lonely sentries of the ocean, sitting and watching, reporting, waiting to once again be part of the mother, the ocean, and drown us all.

I relayed this fear to my aging mother, who I visit twice each week at the Grand Hills Assisted Living Facility, just past the hospital, on the edge of the woods and, ironically, only steps from the man-made Hopkins Lake, where water sat still and glassy, some of the perimeter staked with concrete viewing areas and railings. They took the seniors down there once a week. None were allowed to go on their own, but, according to my mother, the rowdier, more careless seniors did it all the time.

"That's scary," I said to her on one of my visits. We were in the commons area, a big room, full of deep redwood tables and light, padded cedar chairs. Windows surrounded us and the sun came in nearly unabated.

"That's a pretty lake," my mother said, "Prettier than this damn room that smells like Pine Sol all the damn time. Better to go out there and smell real pine, not some damn laboratory pine stink."

My mother sat straight up in her chair. A copy of Redbook lay upside down in front of her. I turned it rightside up and, in another moment, she turned it back upside down again.

"Somebody should be watching them, though," I said. "Wandering off to the lake. That's not good."

My mother bristled, her brow changing shape. "Nobody can tell me where I can go or not. I didn't make it to 109 years old just to be told what to do. I've forgotten more than some of these folks working here will ever learn. They ought to be asking me what, what all they need to do to run things." She pointed her finger, a stubby staff ruined and twisted by arthritis. "After 109 years of living, you got license to run things."

"You're not 109 years old," I said.

"Give or take a few dozen years. I feel 109 years old."

"You're 90," I said.

"By your figuring," she said.

I reached out to her. She just sat there, glassy-eyed, large upon the landscape, a child of the ocean of heaven herself. I realized then that she was just like a lake, a giant piece of an even bigger monolith. A representative of something huge. I stood at her shore and marvelled at her stillness, her expanse.

For a second, mom had allayed my fears, like she's done for 109 years, and she looked cooling and tranquil and, so, I dove into her, and gave her a kiss.

Oh my stars and garters, this is fabjabulous! How do you do this, man?

Well I'd say Mona pretty much summed it up there.

All I can add is that I was moved.

Excellent words to honour thy mother.

I'd be one of the roudier seniors too. There is nothing calmer than sitting by a still body of water listening to the soft whisper of the bristling leaves on the trees or the soft flutter of wind over water. Truly tranquil and isn't that supposed to be a necessary ingredient in our latter years?

that was very nicely written..

I dont like lakes either, for nearly the same reason....

thanks for stopping by as well:)

I've always admired your writing, and this really is pure sweetness. I'm with Mona too. Fabjabulous!

That was fantastic!

In answer to your question:

What rhymes with Purple?

Hurple rhymes with purple
curple rhymes with purple.

Hurple is a scottish word, it means to hobble, or walk with a limp.

Curple is a strap under the girth of a horses saddle to stop the saddle kicking forward.

so, when we get old in order to really cut up, all we have to do is wander to the lake alone? wow. no wonder she felt that way

that is sweetness, what a great post about your mother, all 109 years of her.

PS come by blog and see what you won..

Lakes are so beautiful and peaceful. And your mother sounds beautiful too. The "diving into her" part scared me, but otherwise - truly lovely. 109 looks to be a good place to be.