I KNOW BY THIS TIME YOU’RE THINKING, “Tell you mother about what’s happening.
In spite of the fact that on Mondays – wash day — when I was not in school, my mother and I spent quite a bit of time together. She was not a very talkative person. Simply put, my mother did not have a warm fuzzy type of personality. She was about five feet six, a size twelve, with a honey colored complexion, perfect teeth, and hair that she kept straighten at all times. The only time I ever saw that hair ‘o natureal’ was the week she died.
I remember she had this habit of taking a chair and placing it in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. She would then sit in the chair and lean back so that the chair was tilted back on its hind legs. And there she would sit for two hours watching General Hospital and The Edge of Night. I always thought she was going to fall but she never did. I was not allowed to talk to her while she was in this position. This was her time.
And who could blame her. By this time, she had finished cleaning up after six young children, making beds, and doing our laundry – by hand –, and was cooking our dinner while watching her stories.
And let’s be clear here, if I had told her, where would she have gone for help?