The Mothers

She’s so beautiful. Full lips, boasting the barest hint of pink gloss, skin like gossamer dotted in fine freckles, tiny lines that speak of time well-spent, and hair swept into an expert chignon so startlingly white it momentarily blinds. Blinds me to her tragic truth. No, “awful.” Her awful truth. “Tragic” too cliche, used until one’s used to it, used. But, I can’t dwell on this right now.

She’s chosen an Angelonia — a favorite of mine — the color perfect for her. Vermillion rose? Blood pink? Whatever, it’s gorgeous. Like her. She weaves between the rustic benches groaning under the weight of countless potted annuals. Her movements flow like silk blithely billowing in the small breath of wind momentarily shifting the turgid air as it wafts from the bay just beyond the far trees. I’m entranced. Her smile is a beacon of light and joy. She’s suddenly aglow when she finds you in her gaze and, in an instant, you’re bathed in such a warmth no sun has ever given, no small flame could afford, one that could last a day, longer, last a lifetime, if you see it, feel it, once again, in your mind’s eye. She exudes hope, life, love.

How?

I don’t know her. But, I know her name. “Cleta.” Reminds me of “clethra”, the flowering shrub. Clethra. Or “summersweet” as it is often called. “Summersweet” might best describe Cleta. Summersweet. A shrub notable for its ability to bloom in shady locations, swamps, in clay, in otherwise unfavorable conditions. “Unfavorable conditions” might best describe what I know about Cleta — the ONLY thing I actually know about Cleta. She lost her son to suicide, to the taking of his own life, ending his one life. That is the sole thing I know about Cleta. And, that she is summersweet. So summersweet.

Cleta haunts me. Cleta is one of “The Mothers.” One of the mothers I know who has lost a child to suicide. There are a quite a few I’ve known who’ve suffered the unbearable loss of a child — to accidents, disease. Suicide. I dwell on them; or, I should say, they dwell in me. The suicide moms embed in my psyche. I do not want to join their shunned club. But, I fear I balance on the knife edge of membership. I know some of The Mothers very well; others I am acquainted with. Life did this, it’s not because I am in a “group” or because I went looking. It’s a breathtakingly large club. Taking breath, taking life.

Take my life. I live in fear of sharing a version of their stories. I can’t get The Mothers out of my head; they live in my wandering mind, bewilder my dreams, wake me, cold-sweating, with a start.

But, Cleta. I see her. In her so alive flesh. She wears her ever-vibrant smile and calls to me with her effervescent “hello, you’re back again this summer!”and I beam back at her while shifting my gardener's hose from right to left gloved hand. And she’s building her new garden, radiant with Angelonia, lantana, verbena, and endless, everlasting perennials. And, perennially, I want to ask: “How?” Why? When? How do you keep on? What went before? How have you managed, how did you manage? Did anyone, anything, help? Was it a long time coming or a long time gone? Can I hold you? Can I take some of it away? Are you "healed"? Are your molecules permanently rearranged? Are you still you? Who are you now? Who are you, Cleta, who are you? Are you still you?

Are you who I might be?

Please, tell me, Cleta, will you, be me?

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