O Noraht, Noraht

Finally I opened her wallet. It was filled with cards. She had library cards from 30 years ago, membership cards to the Democratic Party and the ACLU and the Sierra Club. There were two credit cards, which had expired before her mind did. She had an insane, destructive relationship to money, like a junkie. There was never enough, so she charged things, charged away a whole life, to pump herself out of discomfort and fear. She assault-shopped.

There were photos of my nephew Tyler, my older brother's son, and of Sam. She loved being a grandmother. And there was an old picture of herself, a black-and-white photo from when she was 21 or so. She was a beautiful woman, a little like Theda Bara, the white face, jet-black hair. She had dark eyes, full of unflinching intelligence and depression and eagerness to please. In this photo, she looks like she is trying to will herself into elegance, whereas her life was always hard and messy and full of scrabbling chaos. Her frog-stretched mouth is trying to smile, but she can't, or maybe won't, because then she would look beautiful and triumphant, and there would be no rescue, no one to help or serve or save her.

She saved all of her cards from the years she spent practicing family law in Hawaii, an Hawaii Bar Association card, and her Hawaiian driver's license, which expired in 1985. In the license photo, she's brown from the Hawaiian sun, soft and rosy, as if she has risen through warm water, but her eyes are afraid, like she may be about to sink back down to the bottom again. And she did, and clung to our necks to save her.

Her purse says, "I'm a liberal, and a grandmother, and I keep my teeth clean, and my skin soft. And if I can't remember something, I can write it down. If I get a cut, I'll bandage it right away." Her purse made my heart ache. I threw most of the contents away that day -- the Kleenex, the lotions, the toothpaste, and the purse. It was like a dusty navy blue organ she didn't need anymore. I kept the things in her wallet, even the old library cards. I glanced in a tiny mirror. It scares me how alike we look. I wear glasses now, like she did. I look tired -- I am tired. Also, I have a pouch below my belly, whereas I'd always had a thin waist before. Now there's this situation down there, low and grabbable. If it had a zipper, you could store stuff in there, like a fanny pack.

When I was done, I put my mother's wallet back in the closet, next to her ashes. I said a prayer: I said to Jesus, "Here. Could you watch her awhile longer?" I left it there for another six months. It was during that time that my three pets died. I was inconsolable. You want a great mother, I'll show you a retriever-Labrador mix. During that year, I also fell in love. I went to Hawaii with my boyfriend, but got very worried beforehand about how I look in a swimsuit. My friend Robyn suggested I rub lotion into my thighs and stomach, gently, so they would feel cared for, and to decorate them with tiny rose tattoos. It seemed nuts, but I did it, and it helped me feel better -- maybe not quite like Uma Thurman, perhaps, but better, and better can be a real miracle.

I had that on my mind when I got up this morning, for no particular reason -- the lotion, and the rose tattoos. After breakfast, I went and got the brown plastic box out of the closet. I couldn't very well rub lotion onto it, but I sat with it in my lap for a few minutes. The pouch on my belly is nice for holding children, so I let my mother sit there for awhile. Then I decided to wrap the box of ashes in birthday paper, lavender and blue with silver stars, and I taped a picture of a red rose on it. I got a little carried away -- hey, happy late birthday, Noraht -- because the thing is, I don't actually forgive her much yet. But by the same token, I'm not wild about my stomach either; but I get along with it better. Besides, only part of a day has past, and I am definitely not hating her anymore. My heart is not quite so hard. I put her box of ashes on a shelf in the living room. Grace means suddenly you're in a different universe than where you had been stuck, and there was absolutely no way for you to get there on your own. When it happens -- when you stop hating -- you really have to pinch yourself. Jesus said, "The point is not to hate and kill each other today." Can you write that down, and put it by the phone?

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