The Cardinal’s Visits
That weekend I noticed a crowd of wrens had formed a gathering on the fence and the bare branches of my winter bushes. The weather was nice and there were berries to nibble as they chattered merrily. They were so busy in their conversation that they totally ignored my looking at them out of my kitchen window. However, they were so loud that they attracted the attention of the red cardinal who lived here as well. He roosted on the fence to see what was going on. He nibbled a few berries and listened to their conversation.
Looking at him now took me back to years gone by. My beautiful, amazing, vibrant mother was diagnosed with a fast-growing tumor on her pituitary gland. There was no question of them not removing it. If they did not, she would either become blind or become a vegetable. Before the procedure, she put her arms around my father’s shoulder and reassured him that all will be well. That was not so. During the operation, they separated her skull. They pulled the front part of her face and removed the tumor. She never was the same afterward. It was as if someone had pulled all the wires in her operating system out and put them back utterly in the wrong place!
Gradually she lost the use of everything. At first, she mixed up her words, then the ability to walk and talk. It took three hours to feed her a tiny amount of pap food. Little by little, she became a shell. The only thing alive in her were her eyes. Everyone argued she was not inside that shell. I stubbornly maintained that she was. Look at her! Look at her eyes, I desperately argued. One day my grandson, Teal, who was three years old at that time, a very sensitive and kind child, proved me right. It was Passover and Jessica, Teal, Peter, and myself had gone to Los Angeles to celebrate with my parents and the rest of the family. Kelly was living there then. Teal had a little toy that sang and danced when he pressed a button. He stood in front of my mother, got her attention, put his toy at her eye level and pressed the play button. The toy began to sing and dance. Mama’s eyes were riveted on the toy. Teal’s eyes were on his great grandmother. Slowly, slowly he walked backward. Her eyes followed the toy. Teal began to climb up the spiral staircase. Her eyes followed him. She was not a vegetable! My poor mother was trapped in a body that was not allowing her to come out!
It was hard to see her that way. But even in that state, she maintained her sweetness and her dignity. It took her twelve years to escape the confines of her body. Halfway through that time, my father could not bear the torment and agony of seeing her in that state. It tortured him. He could not take it. One Monday morning, Labor Day weekend, he gave up and died. Just before he did so, he looked at her and said, “Mama, I love you.” I think she understood. It was too hard for him. It was too hard for us. Almost seven years after my father died, she went also. When she finally died, it was a relief. She was finally free. Her spirit could soar and be what she was. I mourned her having had to suffer for so long. I mourned my losing my beloved mother, but I rejoiced that she was free to be the gracious, wonderful, and beautiful person that she always was.
I used to go to Los Angeles once a month when they were alive. I did not have to do that anymore. Los Angeles holds too many painful memories.
Soon after she passed away, I spied a red cardinal sitting on the ledge of the window facing the garden in the dining area of my kitchen. I smiled at the bird with pleasure. The bird would come two, three, four times a week. She would tap at the window. I would look up and say, “Hello Mama.” Even Peter greeted her in the same manner. I believed that Mama’s spirit was in that red cardinal. Why else would she greet me almost every morning in the same manner, at the same place? The cardinal first appeared in summer and stayed throughout the autumn, winter, and spring months. We had a long snowy winter. The snow had piled up into banks and would not melt. I could not venture into the back of the garden. Finally, the day came that the snow finally melted. As I walked through the pathway, I let out a scream! I ran back to the house, crying, “Peter! Peter! She’s dead! She’s dead!”
“Who is dead?”
“Mama!” I sobbed, as I led him out to the pathway where the red cardinal lay, her poor head flung back. Her neck was pierced and a drop of blood trembled by the wound.
I was inconsolable. To me, it felt as if Mama had died once more. We buried her in the flower bed, by the bed of mint. We planted a rue plant over her. She loved rue, she loved mint, she loved roses also. Next to her is a beautiful pink rose bush that she always took pleasure in when she came for a visit.
A red cardinal still comes to visit occasionally, it sits on the back fence but it doesn’t tap on the window. I like to think it’s Mama coming to reassure me that all is well with the ones I love who departed this life. It gives me comfort to think so.