This week I flew, alone, from San Francisco to New York City. On both legs of the trip, I had two-hour layovers in Denver. My parents live in Boulder, which is over an hour from the airport. I didn’t have enough time to visit, but I did call them.
Dad gave me suggestions for good airport food, not an oxymoron anymore, and I described what I hoped to see in New York. We talked about movies. I told him how much more I liked Iron Man than I expected.
“Robert Downey Jr. sure brought some depth to that role,” Dad added. The flight attendants gave the first boarding call. I told Dad I had to go.
Five days later, I was back in the Denver airport. I called Dad again. If he had other things to do, he didn’t show it. I told him all about walking across the Brooklyn Bridge, seeing the Egyptian tombs at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and going out for dinner at eleven p.m.
Dad told me about his short time as a bachelor in New York City. Not being much of a cook, he would take a sample of his boiling spaghetti and throw it on the ceiling. If the piece stuck, the pasta was done.
“Good thing you met Mom,” I said.
We talked about my brother and sister, and the weather in Denver. We agreed that it might rain later in the day. Then, it was time to board the plane.
I always think about death at take-off, at least for a little while. I grab my husband’s and children’s hands, if they are around. As my plane leveled out in the stratosphere, I thought that calling my dad was kind of a surrogate hand hold.
I remembered what my friend, Sophia, said three months after her mother died. “I got through the funeral OK, and it wasn’t like my everyday life changed since we lived four hundred miles away from each other. But what still gets me is the phone. I pick it up to tell Mom my good news or about my horrible day, and I realize that I can’t reach her any more.”
I have my own house, husband and kids, and state, but I’m still attached to my parents.
After my first day of kindergarten, my mother dutifully listened to my rambling synopsis of the day.
Forty years later, my parents are still listening. I dread the day when they can’t.
By Beth Touchette
Labels: Beth Touchette
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# posted by Writing Mamas Salon @ 12:11 AM
