On our last Mother’s Day together, I took her to the big morning Mass at St. James Cathedral. As I attempted a Houdini maneuver getting her out of the car, up the curb and down the sidewalk to the church door, she somehow slithered from my grasp.
My mother sank to the ground in what seemed like slow motion. She never made a sound. She just lay there in the green grass in her rose-colored tweed suit, brilliant white hair glinting in the spring sun, blue eyes open wide, staring straight up into an unusually cloudless Seattle sky.
With church bells pealing through the cool morning air, my beautiful, brilliant mother stretched out her arms and made angel wings in the grass.
And all the doctors and all the medications and all the years of worry that couldn’t bring my mother back together again, also couldn’t defeat the magic of that moment.
I lay down next to her, threaded my fingers through hers, and for a brief wondrous moment, we held the present.
— Mary Claude Foster