Thank You For The Rainbow

In the end, she had her way. I think I knew she would. I wouldn’t acknowledge it, being the silly woman that I was, still, in my old age, convinced that my mother’s love for me would surely intervene and she would keep her promise. I believed, really believed that this time it would be different, that her stubborn selfishness would not prevail. But when I look back at those last moments together, I know in my heart that I suspected the truth, but then felt ashamed of my suspicions. There were hints and clues, which I chose to ignore. The truth is she did what she did because of who she was, who she always was. It should have been expected. It was so obvious.

But on that day in October, when we said what was to be our final goodbye, there was a moment when she dropped her impatience at my leaving and became gentle and kind. I have that moment captured in a chance photograph; my husband’s attempt at happy family normalcy, he and his camera. Our foreheads are touching, like two old women sharing a secret. The cold desert sun was on us, lighting her with its crisp brilliance, giving her an angelic quality. She had become shorter than I over the years, with the compressed torso of the very old, out of proportion to her arms and legs, but still elegant in her stance and bearing. Her fine beautiful face was ravaged with the dry wrinkles of age and life events; the tragic loss of a son at an age when motherhood was still in its first bloom, a year of fighting cancer, a year of nursing her own mother through her final days, and finally, the death of her beloved husband. Her short clean hair was a rich dark brown, missing any hint of her natural grey, a concession to her vanity, her hair being the last of her beauties that she was able to salvage from those years of hardship and grief. She had glanced at the camera as the picture was taken, and a thought was captured, that this would be the last moment she would share with her first born daughter. She knew.

As was her request, she was to be buried next to dad, in a large cemetery in the Mojave Desert, a huge expanse of green amid the juniper, mesquite, and yucca. The cemetery was overlooked by foothills only a few miles away, and in the distance the mountain wildernesses stood as a majestic backdrop to the desert’s serenity. I had spent many nights up in those foothills, listening to the coyotes on their nightly prowls, snug and safe in the quilts and warmth that was my childhood home. But the coyotes had left the valley many years ago, taking with them my childhood. Since then, other childhood companions followed; the grandparents, the aunts, the uncles, a brother, one by one, each in their turn, passing beyond the veil. But the ache of their passing had been dulled by time because, like all the countless cousins, my sister and I had left the valley in our youth, taking a different path, searching for meaning somewhere far away from the generations of the past, looking only to our future and the future of those who would follow.

One remained of the old generation; my mother’s youngest sister. I thought it odd that, in the end, it was the oldest and the youngest of seven daughters that would be the last to go. My aunt was like a daughter to my Mom. Because she was so young it was my mother who had raised her. But I could never think of her as sister. Although she was softly spoken, she was also very stern, and shy, I think. She gave the impression of snobbery, which I am sure was not her true nature, and encounters with her often left me feeling uncomfortable, as if I had done something uncouth but could not quite put my finger on it. Because of this, I never felt obliged to question her.

She adored my mother, and would do anything for her. And it was for this reason that it was my aunt who was there at the end, being the only one who my mother trusted with her secret, her wish to die alone.

“Prepare for the worst,” my aunt told me when I made the last of my weekly calls to chat with Mom. No other words were needed. Until that moment we had engaged in a make believe dialogue, the only rule being that we never acknowledged the truth; that Mom was dying. I did what she told me to do, made preparations, but not what she expected. She had asked that I stay home, that I forego the journey of several thousand miles because Mom had said not to. Instead of doing as I was told, however, I made preparations to rush to her bedside, desperate to say goodbye.

Then, several hours later, my little sister called, crying uncontrollably, to tell me that Aunty had called and that Mom was gone.

“What are we going to do?” she wept. I know she meant,” What will we do now that Mom was gone?” But I was intent on the moment, and on my anger, that I had been denied that which had been promised, that she would tell me if she was dying so that I could be there to say goodbye.
“We are going to bury our mother," I said. "That's what we are going to do.” We went into action, a plan in place, knowing that no one could deny us this, not our aunt, and not even our mother. Our defiant determination drove us, and got us through the day.

I finished packing and left for the airport, dressing for Mom in dark tailored slacks and a white silk blouse, her favourite, forgetting the circumstances of my journey. I knew my sister would choose in her dress a statement of individuality; the rebel daughter. I had heard that she adorned dreadlocks these days, and had a diamond pin in her tongue. She always said, in her demeanour, "I am me." I always said in mine, "I am your daughter." Our statements were contrary to our desires. She wanted to be her mother's daughter, and I wanted to be me. We were opposites, my sister and I, and yet we were kindred spirits.

We met up at the airport. From a distance, I heard her cry, “Look at you, Miss Professional Business Woman!”

“Look at you, Miss Hippy,” I replied, and we threw our arms around each other, two sisters playing dress up, and wept.

Why, mom? Why did you want to be alone? All we wanted was to hold your hand once more and say goodbye? We wanted to share those last moments, share our lifetimes with you, to make it all meaningful. And now you are beyond caring, beyond providing answers, beyond knowing how much, in your final act, you have devastated those who loved you the most.

Being together, we faced the crisis, spending an evening at the house in the foothills, sharing our grief, reminiscing over the distant past, now given over to the coyotes. In the morning, we left the house to do that which was our birth right; to bury our mother.

It was windy and bitterly cold that day. There was a threat of showers, which gave the desert a blue grey aspect and sharpened the outlines of the distant mountains. The wind smelled of damp sage with a hint of ozone from the night’s lightening storm. Because of the weather, we dressed in good warm clothes with sensible shoes, not in black. We were to be the only mourners, Aunty having decided to honour our mother's wishes. And even though Mom had specifically said no flowers, we picked some up along the way; a beautiful bouquet of deep red roses.

We stood silently as four workmen made preparations at the gravesite, each dressed in faded jeans and worn work shirts. There was a white hearse in the road, with a polite looking young man, in formal black, shivering, standing next to the open tailgate, holding court with my mother’s casket. I wondered if the black clad driver and hearse were a kindness to my sister and me. Did they bother with these things when there were no loved ones there?

I walked over to the hearse, leaving my sister at the grave overlooking the workers and their activities, too numb to do anything else. The casket was made of fine grained oak with a clear polished finish. I placed my hand on it to caress the wood.

A child cried, “Mommy?” The wind stole the word and it was gone almost before it was spoken.

“What will we do now?” replied the wind. “We are so afraid, so alone. Who will be our mother now?”

I had no answers for the wind.

Standing there, looking at the casket and thinking of you inside, I wondered what it was like the day we met, so long ago, back in the age of innocence. Did you hold my tiny hand in yours and marvel at my firm grasp? Did you count my toes and fingers? Did you stroke my cheek to feel my newborn softness? Did you foolishly promise to forever protect me from all harm and to always be my closest friend, the way I foolishly promised your grandchildren?

I looked over at my sister, the other orphan, standing by the workmen, looking down into the depths of the grave, clutching the forbidden roses. She appeared to be stunned, from grief or cold, either or both.

All she wanted was to make your life worth living, Mom. How can I ever forgive you for what you have done to her? Will she ever feel loved again?

And then I saw it, the rainbow, perfectly centred over the grave, embracing my sister, a miracle on this most terrible of days. It was truly the most beautiful rainbow I had ever seen, with each end clearly visible and firmly anchored, and with all colours vibrant and alive.

“As high as the sky, as wide as the hills, as deep as the ocean,” you always told us, when we asked you how much you loved us. “I am here,” the rainbow said.

I find it strange that we spend most of our lives desperately trying to understand those we love, and that the understanding we seek always seems to elude us. Even when they are gone, we still reach out to them. I don't think I ever really understood any of them; my grandparents, all the aunts and uncles, my brother, my father, and now my mother. Close or distant, it didn't matter; except that those who were the closest to me were the ones I understood the least. And now it's too late. You're gone, and I am forever changed. The best I can do, I suppose, is to believe in the love that I knew was there, remember the little things you did to show it. I know you did your best, Mom. I will never know why you wanted to be alone when you died, or why you decided to betray your promise to me, and I will just have to settle for that. It will have to be enough and I will have to move on from this place.

The workmen came over to the hearse and took my mother, holding handles so beautifully carved that one might wonder at their brief time in the light. Those handles would only know the calloused and dirty hands of hard work instead of the touch of loved ones. In some way, that seemed appropriate. It was a statement of who you were.

The workers carried the casket towards the rainbow, the gateway to heaven, four strangers as your pall bearers, your oldest daughter the only mourner in the procession. The wind called to you, and I could do nothing but follow.

When I reached my sister, I placed her hand on the coffin, She was trembling uncontrollably now, bewildered, and I knew that the touch of wood would heal and calm. The workmen stepped away to leave us, and patiently waited at a distance. We clung to each other, embraced by the rainbow; two frightened children, still needing mommy to make things all better; two daughters, wondering still, as many daughters do, did you truly love us, and knowing in our hearts that of course you truly did; two women, sharing thoughts with all women who have rejoiced and suffered for the sake of love and wondered in the end was it really worth it after all; two mothers, knowing the pain of childbirth and the ecstasies and agonies of motherhood; two sisters, turning gray, orphans now, bound forever in grief. You wanted to be alone at this time, Mom, and yet you had a multitude.

We stepped away and the workmen silently came back to lower the coffin. The roses had taken on a coat of mist; tiny diamond teardrops; a gift from the wind. We threw them in, one last act of defiance, one that we knew you would overlook and forgive.

Your rainbow stayed with us, Mom, strong and determined. Wispy grey clouds had frayed the edges, jealous of the magnificent beauty, threatening to steal this last bit of love you gave to us. You kept them back, as long as you could, until you couldn’t do it anymore.