I’m an early riser; my sleep patterns have remained fairly altered since my mother lived here and I learned to then survive on maybe two, or three hours of rest a night. That hasn’t changed much for I am still awakened in the middle of the night from a noise in the house or the sound of someone yelling.
Who, or what, is behind the ruckus, it’s always the same…a ghost, a shadow of my mother, angry and scared, nothing more.
During her episodes of sundowning, I would try to affect some reason, some calming words to settle her down and put my arms around her to comfort her outbursts. Nothing worked except for cookies; a sweet distraction from her, sometimes violent, episodes. As she sat and munched away, I would always take the opportunity to try and tune-in to whatever channel her mind was on at that moment. It was always the wrong one. She would promptly dismiss me with her usual, “who are you?” and my retreat out of her room could not be fast enough.
I went outside to have my morning coffee today, standing on the deck near some miniature roses given to me by my daughter Jill for Mother’s Day. One tiny red bloom emerged, holding a raindrop between its petals much like a mother holding a newborn child.
When the sun eventually finds its way out of the cloud cover, that raindrop will disappear, leaving the rose-mother with empty arms.
Until it rains again, or the rose just withers away…..and dies.
From Mama Kat’s Writer’s Workshop…Write about a time you thought there was a ghost.
