Prayers Answered

I visited my Mom this past Sunday. She lives in Steinbeck country - Salinas - among the vast produce fields that define this "Salad Bowl of the World." Her neighborhood is a mobile home community exclusively for seniors. Since I live in Oakland, about a 90-minute drive from there, I feel at ease that she lives here among folk who look after her and for whom she keeps an eye out.

Mom, in my garden, 2012. I owe my green thumb to her.  

Recently I found out that some cable TV sales guys had knocked on her door, wanting to help her reduce her monthly bill. I was mortified when she told me she invited them in! I scolded her for doing so. Mom can be tough and is one who tells it like it is - a real straightshooter - but she's also incredibly sweet and naive and 84. And we all know that there are cruel people who take advantage of ladies with an innocence like hers. After learning that Mom let strangers in her house ("They were really nice," she told me.), I immediately called her friend Norma, who runs the mobile home park with her husband Steve. Good people. I was relieved when Norma told me that she was aware of the unwelcome door-to-door salesmen. They'd even called the sheriff at one time. "Don't worry about them," she said. "They've come around here before and we chased them out then, too. They come back, we'll chase 'em out again." This mostly put me at ease, but my imagination still ran wild with thoughts of men with perverted smiles accosting my mother, rummaging through her desk drawer and finding her checkbook, making their way toward her jewelry box on top of the dresser, and yes, committing unfathomable acts on her body. 

During my recent visit, I hugged my mom extra tightly and for an extra while longer than I usually do. I was happy, excited and thankful to see her, and happier still after seeing how vibrant she looked. I adore her personal style, which usually consists of jeans, a comfy sweater or top I've never seen before, and impossibly clean white Keds leather sneakers. Her hair (still thick!) is always beautifully coifed. Damn, if I'm lucky enough to live to be her age, I hope to be in as good of shape. (I attribute her vitality to a mostly Korean diet and keeping busy with tons of activities: churchgoing, quilting, baby grand piano playing, and mimicking Angela Lansbury's "Positive Moves" via videotape). Hugo and his father stood in line behind me, awaiting their turns for a bear hug that smelled like lavender soap and Paul Mitchell hairspray and love. 

"Ohhhh, my boys are here! I missed you guys. Come eat. It's all ready!" she declares, as I slip down the hallway, into her bedroom to visit Dad. My mouth is watering because of the aromas wafting from the kitchen (doenjang chigae!) but I don't sit down to eat until I've paid my respects. Dad's ashes are in a large, solid-wood box, atop a tall bureau that flanks the bed. My mother swathed the box in an American flag and displayed family photos around it. The tableau's always a little different each time I visit. Usually there's an adorable bouquet of garden-picked flowers next to the box - or a beguiling orchid she scored at the flea market from Mexicans who gave her a great bargain. This time, I noticed a photo of me and Hugo made it to the ever-changing display. This had never happened before. I suddenly felt very privileged. The snapshot was from much earlier in our 16-year relationship; my hair was longer, Hugo'd done something fancy with his facial hair, we were both much thinner. Dad adored Hugo and his parents, who actually used to live down the street from them for a few years. Those were the days. We could visit all four parents in one fell swoop. And we'd always leave stuffed to the gills after being gleefully fed by two mothers who loved to cook for our very appreciate mouths. 

I pause to look at another framed photo. It's of my parents from the 50th wedding anniversary my siblings and I threw for them. Mom is behind him, her tiny arms wrapped around his neck while he's looking back at her with his signature bratty smirk. You can tell they were loving every minute of that moment. Did I snap that photo? Regardless, it's priceless.

As I lay my head on the box with my father's remains, I pray to him, thanking him for watching over Mom and our family. Dad taught me to pray when I was in grade school and went to bible school. It's a childhood habit I haven't shaken, although as an adult I now pray to those whom I knew but have passed from this life - beloved cats included. I don't believe in God; they are my gods, the spirits, the security blankets that help guide me through and comfort me in this life. Every morning and evening, my prayer opens with the same line: "Dear Daddy, Halmoni, Pidge, Grandma Cannon, Mamae and Sammy, thank you for all we have and for all we don't have ..." 

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