(About a 3 minute read)
My mother died a year ago this month of old age. She was 99. But I lost her half a decade before, maybe a little earlier than that. Not to dementia at first — that would come later — but to Fox News.
Like so many older people she’d gotten sucked into that hole, her logic and reason swirling down its drain, obscenely undervalued now by her, and by them. They who are such cutting stupid whores, they take pride in how well they spread their diseases.
She was lost to me, of course. I’d reached an age when I wanted to ask her the important questions — the questions I’d always wanted to ask, but couldn’t as a teen — the questions only she would know the answers to, and might be trusted by me to tell:
What is life?
Where am I headed?
What regrets and warnings do you have of things I might be missing?
What do I do now?
But she only wanted to talk by then of Kenya and Obama’s birth certificate. I was forced to mourn my loss of her years before she fully died.
Ninety-nine years. She lived through the most important century in human history, saw most of it first hand, and — until Fox — she understood what she was seeing.
At the funeral I could only glance at her corpse. Just enough to see her fingers had withered, her face too. I didn’t want those to be my last memories of her, but I still glanced for a second or two.
Her last words to me were a cliche: “I love you, Paul” — the last time I was able to get her on the phone. She said it with passion. I think that memory will last like an unpolluted fresh water river now.
Friends came to her funeral, said my brother delivered the best eulogy they’d heard. I wrote my own in a blog post for you here.
Her former tenants came too, said the same things they’d said while she was alive, “She was tough but fair”.
But of all that was said, the most meaningful to me was from Glenn. He called a few days after she was buried, only just then having first heard she’d died. “Your mother was the only adult who took me seriously, didn’t treat me as a child. I trusted her with opinions and views I felt I could not even tell my own mom and dad. She was genuinely interested in them.”
She once looked back in a conversation with me once, said “I cherish most the times we were laughing together as a family. The times people would now and then approach our table in a restaurant to ask the secret of how we could laugh together so much. But to us, laughing with each other came as natural and unnoticed as water to fish.”