My mother's house: This was where I grew up. And yet I hate that thought even though I almost do not recognize this place from all the changes that have occurred since I stormed out of this building forty-eight years ago and never once came back.
Now I have to cross this threshold again because the phone call from a hospice worker said that my mother has but weeks to live, and that she begged for me to come.
How do you explain to a stranger that you do not want to see your own mother before she dies? Feeling that way is almost incomprehensible to even me, and I know the reason, a reason I have never shared with anyone else, nor do I intend to. So I reluctantly told the woman who called that I'd be here today, and here I am, wishing I were somewhere else.
The nurse that greets me at the door does not offer a smile, and I learned later that she has cared for my mother for two years, and that she often wondered how a son could treat his mother that way. Her contempt was written all across her face, and I wanted to scream: "Do you know what she did to me? But I kept quiet and climbed the two flights of stairs to my mother's bedroom, the same room she and my father shared before he died when I was eighteen years old.
Why would she stay in this godforsaken place? My father’s life insurance made her a wealthy woman. She could have bought any house she wanted, and yet for forty-eight years after his death she stayed.
As I open the door to her bedroom I think the unthinkable. Should I give her the same poison she gave to my father?
(I am not sure I followed all of your rules, Greg, but I tried by just continuing from last week's "place" setting story. I am enjoying the challenge you have set up)