A Command from the Dying

Irene's mother issues a deathbed command to her daughter.

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When Irene's mother was dying, she established some rules. "Irene, when I die, you will of course bury me in the Ashleyville Cemetery. You will visit every day. I know you will. You're a good daughter, though I can't say you always have been very good. Why you married that guy, I have no idea. At least the two of you produced a cute boy."

Irene was sitting in the nursing home. She looked out the window at the trees and flowers and the clouds in the distance. "Yes, little Harold is very cute."

"Wish you hadn't named him that stupid name."

"It's his father's name. We like it. The baby seems to like it."

"What does the baby know?" The dying woman started to laugh and then began to cough a loud, horrible cough. Irene thought it sounded like death. What did death sound like, or look like? She wasn't sure, but she did know her mother was dying. The doctor had said so.

"Let's not argue, Mom."

"You always like to pick fights with me."

"No I don't, Mom. Listen. I have to get back home. Harold's been watching the baby, and he has to go to work soon."

"Why did you have to marry a firefighter?"

Irene didn't answer. They had had this conversation before. More than a few times.

"Promise me that you'll visit me in the cemetery every day."

"Sure, Mom."

"I mean it. Promise me."

"I promise."

"And bring the baby with you. Then I can watch him grow up."

Watch him from the grave? From heaven? From where? Irene was tired, tired from the months of visiting her mother, tired from the bickering over the years. She was too exhausted to argue with her dying mother, and in the end, at her mother's end, it didn't seem right or even useful.

"Sure, Mom. I'll do that."

And then Mildred Frances Earnest died. She had given birth to Irene when she was forty. And now here was Irene, also forty, with a baby to raise. Mourners at the funeral made note of that fact. "Why, Mildred died at eighty, and she had you at forty, and here you are at forty with a baby, repeating history. Guess you have forty more years to go, Irene." That was Aunt Martha.

Finally, it was over, the death, the funeral, the interment. Over. Except that it wasn't. Irene had to go to the cemetery. And she had to take little Harold with her.

At first she didn't tell her husband where she was going. Most of the time he worked the late shift at the fire station and was sleeping when she and little Harold left for the cemetery.

Quite near her mother's grave there was a bench, just the right distance for some conversation with the dead.

Harold was sleeping on that first morning. "Hi, Mom. We're here. Little Harold is taking a nap. I hope all is well in the other world. Mom, I know I promised to visit you, but I must say I feel a bit silly doing this. And how long am I supposed to keep this up? What happens when it snows, or the baby has the sniffles? What then? And I don’t want to tell my husband what I'm doing. He might think I'm crazy."

When the first weekend came, Irene was happy that Harold had to put on his firefighter's uniform again. What would she do on the second weekend? She had no clue, no idea, no concept.

On Monday it was raining hard. She bundled up little Harold, put on her long raincoat, and set off while holding an umbrella over the baby's carriage.

Sometimes Irene would see a few people wandering around or reading inscriptions on tombstones, but not on Monday. The cemetery was empty, except for Irene, the baby, and the dead.

"Mom, it's raining really hard, and I hope little Harold doesn't get sick. Today's rain made me wonder about the winter. I can't keep doing this, and at some point Harold is going to think his mother is a crazy woman. And I think he might be right."

"Irene? What are you doing here?" It was the voice of her husband, Harold the Firefighter.

"How did you know I was here?"

"I'm a light sleeper, and I began to realize that you and the baby were going out for a walk every morning. It seemed OK at first, but not in pouring down rain! So I followed you. I repeat, what are you doing here?"

Harold sat down and took her hand.

"It's my mother. She made me promise that the baby and I would visit her every day and talk to her."

"You're serious?"

"I'm afraid so. But just before you came, I was telling her that I can't do this in bad weather and eventually Harold Jr. might think his mother was crazy."

Harold Sr. started to laugh, then stopped. "Your mother was, is, really something. An unselfish mother wouldn't ask for daily visits. An unselfish mother would rest in peace."

"Yes. I know. When you came, I was telling her I couldn't keep coming here every day. I need to finish my little speech, I guess."

"Do you want me to take Harold home while you finish?"

"No. Stay, please." Irene turned toward her mother's grave. "Mom, look, I have a husband and a son. We hope to have more children. We need to live our own lives. Listen. Little Harold and I will visit once a week from now on. You need to rest in peace. That's what they always say, isn't it?"

A dog walked by, followed by its human companion. The dog was a Morkie, her mother's favorite dog.

"Look, Harold. That's my mom's favorite breed. Is that a sign or something?"

"Don't know. I'll take it."

The rain stopped, and they walked back home.

By Anita G. Gorman

From: United States

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