1984

There was an old porch swing in the back yard of my parents' home. Sitting there gliding gently back and forth in the late spring when the only air stirred up was the gentle motion created by the creaking chains and the wooden seat, my mother and I talked of her death. It was not imminent at the time, but the need was strong in her then to prepare for it. Cancer was the enemy stalking her, shrouding her every joyous or mundane moment with impending doom. It was a cloud of certain bursting and she was aware of its first rumblings. Though the storm was still in the distance, she could smell the rain. And, there was something else...a notion about her husband, my father. Hard to speak of. A thought dammed up by the horror of actually saying the words aloud. It could not be that bad. So, I swung on obliviously enjoying the scent of the roses and the buzzing of the honey bees.

"The young man from church," my mother was saying, "who comes over to mow the yard?"

"Yes, Mother."

"Well, I saw him with Daddy on the couch Saturday evening...and...."

"And?"

"And Daddy had his shirt off and the young man was..." Mother stopped.

I planted my feet on the ground, halting the motion of the swing. I quit breathing. Actually, I think the whole world stood still to listen. I made her look at me. "The young man was what, Mother?"

"You know, fondling your father."

I took the kind of deep breath one takes before blowing out all the birthday candles from a cake and held onto life before this moment. With the exhaling would come the snuffing out of the perception of my family life up until now.

"Are you sure?"

All the lovely light oozed from Mother's beautiful hazel eyes as she was forced again to remember seeing the unseeable. The deep sadness there had precluded an answer.

The swing was motionless. No more gliding back and forth in gentle ease. We had left swing conversation behind. However, neither of us could actually move for a few minutes. I was trying to picture what my mother was trying to erase. Words became stuck somewhere in the gears of my brain and could not manifest. Our hands intertwined, braided for strength. At the end of an eternity of silence, there came a great, rushing, heavy sigh; all the life-breath escaping in one desperate eruption.