I’m taking an online class through thehabit.co on writing techniques used by C.S. Lewis in The Silver Chair. Our assignment a few weeks ago was to write a scene of conversation in with what was said was secondary, misunderstood, or just a backdrop. I knew what I wanted to write immediately, but tried to think of something else because I knew it would make me cry. After 5 days, I wrote it anyway.

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Visiting Mom

She was in her usual place when I came this morning, her wheel chair parked near the fireplace, a blanket on her lap, her head nodding in sleep. The caretaker was helping Joe find his place in the magazine he held upside down, and smiled. “Getting bathed and dressed wore her out.”

“Anything new?” I asked.

She shook her head, and I greeted the others. Emma is nearly blind and doesn’t see well, so I touched her shoulder softly and said her name. Kate is always sure I’ve come to see her, so I look at the pictures of her family once again, before I excuse myself.

“Mamacita,” I kiss her cheek and speak quietly near her ear. “It’s your daughter Kathie here to see you this morning.” She doesn’t respond, so I rearrange the ever-present blanket on her lap and kiss her other cheek.

“I love this sweater,” I said. “It’s the color of your eyes and so soft.” I fix the collar around her neck just the way she likes it, and she said, “Hmm.”

“Let’s go in the other room,” I said as I wheel her into a small private seating area. I get her wheelchair settled beside me, facing me while still allowing me to hold her hand. I pull a tube of sweet-smelling goatmilk lotion from my pocket and rub it into her hands and the dry skin on her forearms.

“Remember this smell?”

She sniffs the air and smiles.

“It’s lily of the valley, just like you had under your bedroom window in Albuquerque. You loved to leave your window cracked open at night so you would smell them when you woke up. I’d crawl in bed with you and snuggle, and we’d smell it together. Remember?”

“Kathie?”

“Hi, Mom.”

“Do you live here?”

“No, I flew in from Iowa. You know…” I sing “Iowa, Iowa, best state in the land, corn on every hand. Oh, we’re from Iowa, Iowa. That’s where the tall corn grows.”

“Is the corn tall?”

“It’s all harvested now. The farmers have been working hard,” I tell her. “You know how that is.”

“Pa and the boys did the harvesting.”

“And you gathered eggs and got the milk tank ready for the truck.”

Mom nodded, and we sat quietly hand in hand. I start humming under my breath, and soon my mom joins me. “Do you want to sing a little?”

Mom smiles and nods, “Yes.”

So, we sing: “Great is Thy faithfulness, O God my Father. There is no shadow of turning with thee. Thou changest not, thy compassions, they fail not. As thou hast been thou forever wilt be.”

When we get to the chorus, mom takes the lead. She sits up straight, squares her shoulders, supporting her breath as a trained singer does. “Great is Thy faithfulness; great is Thy faithfulness. Morning by morning new mercies I see; all I have needed Thy hand hath provided: great is Thy faithfulness, Lord, unto me!”

I harmonize as her mezzo soprano voice soars up to heaven. At least, that’s how I hear it. And God smiles.

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