kindred spirits*

The saddest thing was when she stopped doing all those things we laughed at: the polite descending a-ha-ha-ha, the crinkling eyes to show she was listening, the joke about a wheelbarrow after we ate good, full plates of Logan’s Roadhouse or Exotic Thai. We had pointed out these quirks good-naturedly, embarrassed by her transparency, her predictable habits that made us think she was shallow. But then she stopped. We hovered over our plates, silver spoons levitating, even the small waitress lingered for a moment, leaning in her polo, but we never heard the faintest creak of a wheelbarrow. When I called home from college to tell her how I made up French for a presentation she said, “Oh that’s funny” without laughing. Merci le’jocul.

We kept teasing her: Hey bucko when a speedy green car with black stripes cut her off in traffic, horsies instead of horses, errr like brakes at every stopsign. Stop I told myself, or what will be left? Something sad. And old. My mother’s age frightened me; I felt her loss: all those years rushing by and what is left? Something sad? And old. She didn’t know yet, and I held my breath. The teasing was an egg toss. When the egg broke, there wouldn’t be another. There was only one wheelbarrow, after all, rusting in some ditch with chicory. So much depended on it.