Recently I received a note from one of my mom’s friends. I looked at the envelope enviously. The handwriting is beautiful. Neat. Perfect. Last year when I needed my mom’s signature on some documents I found she was no longer capable of signing her name. She didn’t know her name. She doesn’t understand how to sign her name even when shown an example.
Inside the envelope are a note and a picture. The picture is a large group of ladies taken in the 70’s. My mom’s friends. Friends she made in grade school and met with regularly until everyone was either too infirm to meet or dead. The back of the picture has the same neat, precise handwriting with every single woman’s first name and maiden and married last name listed, in order. I was envious of the 88 year old woman who could still recall the details of this group, and had capacity enough to record them. I was envious of her family too. Out of the group of 10, 3 are still alive.
My mom is the only woman making a silly face. I stared at the picture a long time. The date says August 5, 1977. I thought about the person I was in 1977. A sullen 17 year old. Depressed. Angry. Did I know that then? I think about the woman my mom was in 1977. Pretty. Smart. Beaten regularly by her husband, my father. Depressed. Sullen. Angry.
