The Crossing

Pitter patter, pitter patter is the sound of rain. Like the soft padding and clicking nails of our little dogs skittering across our rough-hewn wood floors, the raindrops pit and pat on the roof of my car. I think of my dogs, but I don’t miss them or miss my home right now. I’m fully present where I am in the town of my youth where my mother has lived most of her life and is currently dying. I am present, which is why I come to the river on a rainy day to sooth myself and to absorb some peace to bring back to her bedside. 

It is quiet here. The only other sounds besides the rain on my roof are the putts and rumbles of the oldest living ferry in the USofA. The ferry is a claim to fame of this 330 year old town in central Connecticut. It’s a two car ferry that is pure nostalgia, there is nothing particularly convenient or productive about it. By the time the ferryman returns from the other side, unloads and reloads, then motors the little boat that tugs the two-car flat bed across the thin river, the travelers could’ve easily reached their destinations by taking the bridge at the other end of town. But it’s sweet: the gentle meandering river and the slow timeless boat.

My first glimpse of my mother upon returning to care for her after spending a few days at home in NY was shocking. It shouldn’t have been. I know that she has stopped eating. Perhaps while I was away my memories of her as vitally alive and engaged deluded me. Now, I see again that she is gaunt. Her skin is pale and as translucent as rice paper pulled tight over the cheek ridges and sockets of her skull. Also, she is calm. Her eyes are shut to this world. She appears to have received a coveted invitation and is merely waiting for the doors to open to the next. 

At a certain point in an earlier stage in the progression of her dementia, she wondered if she’d be worthy of heaven and expressed some small relief when I assured her that all were welcome and that her loved ones, in particular, were excited to greet her there.

“Oh, are you sure?” She had exhaled only slightly, retaining doubt, which mystified me. My mom was one of the most generous, altruistic, hard working, religious people I’ve known. But then, I wondered, had she worked so hard because of her doubts about worthiness? 

Thank goodness that now, as the ferryman approaches, she is calm. She lies in her hospice issued hospital bed wrapped in her cozy white robe with layers of sheets, blankets, and comforter cocooning her, and her face is as serene as the Blessed Virgin while holding the Angel’s message quietly in her heart. Promise is written all over her peaceful countenance.