Mama died on a Tuesday. Miss Ross saw her feet sticking out from the next to the last row of corn. Having Miss Ross as a next door neighbor was always stressful for Mama on account of her meddling. The one time it actually benefited anyone, and Mama’s not here to laugh about it with me.
Word is a blood clot let loose in Mama and that was all she wrote. Dead in an instant right there in her corn field, half-filled bucket of corn tipped over next to her. I had been expecting Mama’s call that day. My ears were anticipating her soprano voice telling me that Miss Ross was messing in her business again.
Now I sit here in Mama’s rocking chair, her crow’s nest, overlooking the garden that she had nurtured like one of her children. Although, if Mama had nurtured the garden like she nurtured me, then it likely wouldn’t be so vibrant. But if you ask my sister Libby, she’d tell you her relationship with Mama was as lush as the lavender hydrangeas that greet people when they come up the front steps. Me and Libby don’t have much in common but for our blue eyes. Mama was generous to us with those.
I rock, anticipating Libby’s breathless arrival combined with her exclaiming how busy she is, and I grip the arms of the chair. This rocking chair has been in our family for decades. Mama’s mama lost count of how many. At least that was what Mama said. But if the truth is known, she just blamed not remembering on her. After all, you do what you were taught.
The rocker has worn itself a path in the old oak floors. The grooves are like a piece of music that Mama has left for me. I try rocking different speeds to see if I can decipher any messages. I want to conjure up the past that I can’t remember. I want to feel her smile that forms when smelling my sweet baby hair. I want to watch as an outsider and maybe witness some attachment to me.
As I rock back and forth, I close my eyes. Slow my breathing. I run my hands up and down the arms of the rocker and settle them at the curved ends, wrapping my fingers around and finding the spots where Mama’s own fingers would rest. I start to wonder if the rocker is haunted. Haunted by the tears from mamas who never had any babies to rock. Haunted by the mistakes mamas had been making for decades, passing them down like a fine China pattern from generation to generation. You don’t register for this pattern because it is already yours.
