I drove my mother to the airport. We got there three hours before her flight. I couldn’t wait with her beside her gate. She walked through security on her own.
No, she went to the front of the line in a wheelchair. She didn’t have to stand in line with her new hip. Or was it a knee? I told her I wouldn’t cry. But, I did.
The man helped her into her chair on wheels and he pushed her away.
I walked up to the second floor and watched her. She didn’t see me looking.
They made her stand up and take off her belt. They held the wand over her knee and her hip.
The last time I saw my mother she could fit between my thumb and finger. She got smaller as he pushed her farther away from me.
If I saw her yesterday, I would still have to leave.
There will always be a last time.
The last time I saw her she was the size of a bug.
I want to see her full size. I want to hug her and have her sing to me the song she sang when I was three and four and 54.
I want to see her one last time, and again and again. I don’t want there to be a last time.
Ever.
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p.s.
The first photograph was taken in Boulder Creek, California, in 2010. My mother came to help me pack before we moved to Pennsylvania.
The second photograph was taken somewhere in Canada. I cut my own hair, and my mother had to cut it again. That is why it is so short. “Hey Mom, how old am I here?”
This post is part of Lisa-Jo Bakers 5-Minute Friday. Today’s story prompt is the word, “Last.”
Write for 5 minutes, unedited. ( I do correct my typing mistakes, but I don’t rewrite. That would be cheating. And, I don’t cheat.)
You can read other 5 minute stories here.
