The Alpha and Omega

(Peggy is taking off this week, so we're featuring one of her award-winning columns from several years ago)

Is this how it begins, mama?

You lie curled in bed, just the top of your head showing from under the piles of blankets. Your hands, posed as in prayer, cup your face against the pillow.

And, of course, there's the white crumpled handkerchief that is your security blanket.

"Where's my handkerchief? you ask several times a day if you should get separated.

You search in the cushion of your chair until you find the white cotton handkerchief, then touch it gently to your face, finally poking it into a pocket of your housecoat.

Later the questions begin...those how, why, when and where questions so often asked by the very young. I answer, knowing the same questions will be asked again before the hour is gone.

Television, once an ally, no longer holds your interest. You flick the remote, then flick it again and again.

"What channel is that?" you ask.

"I don't know, mama."

Carefully, slowly, you put one foot in front of the other, inching forth, afraid of tumbling to the hard linoleum. It's a victory to traverse the distance from your rocker to the kitchen and back.

Your big blue eyes seem bigger now. They stare blankly into space.

You try to remember but thoughts just flit away. Still you talk, talk, talk about yesterday.

You like your medicicne but only if you take it with applesauce. The pills go down better that way.

"Is it time for my medicine?" you ask again.

You grab the telephone at the first ring. It's your lifeline to the world beyond the four walls. Calls from friends make you happy. Someone relates a bit of news...the death of a neighbor, the birth of a child.

You love kittens. Always you've loved cats and kittens. Feeding them was a highlight of your day. The cats purr and rub against your legs and you coo, touching them one by one, calling them by name.

"Don't forget to feed the cats," you remind. "Twice a day."

It's thundering and rain beats on the roof. You're afraid of storms. Suddenly you laugh as you remember something.

"Dad was scared of storms," you tell me. "When I was little, dad would round up all us kids and pile us on his featherbed. He told us that lightning never strikes feathers." You laugh again.

"Would you put some powder on my back?" you ask.

I take the big puff and generously powder your sagging body.

"That's better," you say.

You ask, "Did I take a nap today?"

"Yes, mama. You took a nice nap."

"Is it time for my medicine?"

"Not yet, mama. After while."

You search for your handkerchief.

"I've lost my handkerchief," you say.

Last Christmas I gift-wrapped three white handkerchiefs. That's what you asked for.

This morning you say, "I wish I had a million dollars."

"What would you do with a million dollars?" I ask.

"I'd buy all my kids a new house," you answer.

Then the invitable question, "When do I take my medicine?"

Oh, mama, please don't go away. Stay a little longer. It shouldn't have to end this way.