My Mother's Room
After her husband’s death, my mother settled in with us and began to acclimate herself to new surroundings. As you walked into her bedroom you immediately smelled a fusty odor that indicated age was present. Classical music emanated from a radio that she kept on top of an old chest of drawers. Noticeably, a long wooden back-scratcher was on the wall by the light switch. It was cracked and so worn down that it seemed to be out of place among contemporary baseboards and hand crafted closet trim. On the opposite wall was a Crucifix that reminded us of what we are. Nearby was a family portrait that reminded us of who we were. A day bed consumed space in her room just as her naps consumed time each day. Small icons of married life were spattered among the area. It was meticulous in such a way that it was prudent to ask about the love in her life. A blue Lazy-Boy chair rested quietly in the corner by the window until my mother remembered that sitting and rocking was her favorite distraction from Dementia.
This scene lapsed into the future and faded from the room forever. I became blinded by my own bereavement and upheld that my mother’s room would stay the same. It quickly changed in front of me and I did not pay attention. Soon, pieces of furniture began to disappear. Only objects of medical care equipment, supplies, and medicines remained.
Like waves from the ocean changing the Texas coastline, the years of time and neglect eroded my mother’s room into an empty and lifeless space.
Consequently, left with a feeling of emptiness, I had to ask myself some hard questions. Why did this happen? What should I do with my mother’s room? And what would my mother say to do? I began one day by standing in the middle of her vacant room just to listen. Suddenly, it echoed. The classical music of her radio and a familiar smell came over me. I could almost hear the dialogues we had as she sat in her blue chair next to the window. It became apparent to me that there was history in this room where none existed before. As a result, each time that I entered in her old room I remembered moments from our time together.
Afterwards, removing objects and medicines rapidly renewed the room into something completely different; this upstairs bedroom is now a place of thought, academia, and contemplation. In other words, where this once was my mother’s room, is now a Study.