Rings

1. Pee.
2. Wash my hands.
3. Brush my teeth.
4. Check to see if mom’s still breathing.

That’s been my morning ritual since the day Mom moved in with me. If I happen to leave for work without checking on her, perhaps because I’ve been side-tracked by the cat or my attention has been diverted by a phone call, I turn the car around and go back home. I park, enter the house noiselessly, open the door to her bedroom and pause, waiting to hear a breath or see the barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. She sleeps with her head tossed back, mouth open, lip sunken against the toothless gum of her lower jaw. Reassured, I retrace my steps and leave the house.

My one regret about asking mom to live with me is that I didn’t do it sooner, while Dad was still alive, so that I could be caring for him, too. There were many reasons why it wasn’t feasible, but I know they would have enjoyed spending time together with me as their caretaker. I would have made them hearty breakfasts and sinful desserts. I’ve convinced myself that I could have made it work.
Dad’s buried in a military cemetery in Denver. My brothers and I have always assumed that Mom will be buried there, too. Dad’s headstone has a place for her name and birth/death dates. Recently, though, Mom has mentioned that she feels there’s no reason to “ship her,” as she puts it, back to Denver. The cemetery that adjoins the small lake where we sometimes go to eat lunch appeals to her.

“But Mom,” I say, “we thought you’d want to be with Dad.”
“I’m not worried about that. We’ll find each other in heaven no matter where you put me. I like this town. I’d be perfectly happy to stay here."

During one of these discussions, she removes her wedding rings and hands them to me. “Try these on.” She's worn her rings for sixty-plus years. At some point she had her engagement and wedding rings joined with a bit of silver solder to keep them aligned. I try them on. As they slip neatly over my knuckle she smiles.

“I want you to have them. I’ve always expected they’d be yours someday.”
“Yes, but not yet,” I say. “I want you to wear them until . . . as long as . . .”
She nods. “Okay, but don’t wait until they have to pry them off my cold dead hand,” she says with a chuckle.
“Don’t worry, Mom,” I say, playing along, “I promise I’ll slip them off while you’re still warm.”
“Well, good,” she says. “That’s just what I had in mind.”