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3rd PLACE - 10th ANNUAL FUNDSFORWRITERS ESSAY CONTEST - ENTRY FEE CATEGORY Mildred By Catherine Dickinson It is 1989. I’m sitting in a Los Angeles club watching octogenarian Mildred stuff money into a drag queen’s garter belt. We’re at a fundraiser for AIDS research. It’s my first drag show and I’m diligently hiding my virgin status. The lady next to me clearly has no such problem. She comfortably sips scotch rocks and summons yet another performer. She looks ageless; her mind appears unrelentingly youthful though she walks carefully but agilely. I do not yet recognize her as the mother of my heart, the mom I wish I always had. Our lives continue to intersect. We’re both involved in efforts to help people living with AIDS and their caregivers, though we live on different coasts – Mildred near the Pacific while I’m on the Atlantic. I learn Mildred has two sons, Evan and Samuel, both of whom have AIDS. Mildred’s eldest, Evan, dies. She chooses to place his ashes in the pond at the church where I live. During her stay in my house our friendship ripens. Back in Los Angeles, her younger son Samuel uses the time to create a surprise. Mildred excitedly calls me when she gets home. Sam’s painted a beautiful azure sky and fluffy clouds on her bungalow’s ceiling. Three months later I’m back in LA and see Sam’s work for myself. The room’s atmosphere encourages confidences. We stay up late reminiscing in that happy place where I learn Mildred’s husband beat her. She endures the pain and humiliation for the sake of her children. She continues saying that when Evan hit his teen years he reveals that he’s gay. His dad reacts by trying to beat “it” out of Evan. That night Mildred sneaks the boys out of the house and begins her life as a single mom. I’m in awe of her courage and fortitude. From that moment on she becomes my heart mother, though I did not realize loving her would set me free. Almost two years pass before we are together again but she is never far from my thoughts. Sam dies and Mildred returns to Florida with his ashes. Mildred’s grief changes her. How can it not? I’m unable to comprehend how it must feel to have both your children die before you. I’d be devastated if my daughters died. How can I comfort her? The task seems so enormous I want to run away, let others take care of her. I’m not trained for grief counseling! Oddly enough that’s not what Mildred wants from me. She just wants to reminisce, and cry. I can cry with her. Mildred tells me Sam’s story and calls him her miracle baby. “Why?” I ask. Mildred tells me about her daughter Rachael – impetuous, joyful, fun loving Rachael – born just after Evan. When Rachael is six she’s eager to start school and ride the bus home. One day Rachel does not arrive home on time. Mildred learns Rachael darted out in front of a bus and was killed. I look at this woman aghast. She has outlived all of her children and is not buried in depression. Next Mildred tells me after the funeral she prayed for another baby to take Rachael’s place and God answered by sending her Sam. I urge Mildred to remain in Florida after Sam’s death saying it would be wise not to live on her own anymore; senior dementia has set in. Mildred’s condition deteriorates almost daily and I’m feeling trapped, inept and scared as I try to take care of her. I’m concerned, believing I’m ill equipped to assist her and want to run away, but it’s hot, humid summer in Florida and few church members are available to help. On Mildred’s birthday hour after hour flowers arrive for her. Her room begins to resemble an abundant, fragrant garden. This is the happiest I’ve seen Mildred in months. That night as she prepares for bed she walks from bouquet to bouquet, touching them gently, a look of wonder on her face. “I’m so lucky,” she says. “I’m so lucky.” I lost it with those words and swiftly, silently withdraw to go cry elsewhere, ashamed at my own lack of gratitude. This woman who has lost so much remains so appreciative. She doesn’t focus on what’s she’s lost. All my fears seem so petty. How glad I am that I did not give in and run away. This moment is too precious to have been missed because I was afraid. |
A Carolina Slade Mystery
Writer's Digest 101 Best Websites for Writers - 2001-2011
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