Maia Madden

Book Author, Journalist, Blogger

Archive for the tag “family”

In Praise of Love, a French Mother and Glorious Food

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Today, January 6th, was my mother’s birthday. Her name was Gisèle, but those close to her called her Gigi. I won’t say how old she would have been in honor of one of her Frenchwoman’s commandments: Thou shalt not tell thy age. The goal was to stay looking and acting young, not moaning and groaning about how old you were. Plus, she said, it was nobody’s business: if you looked too good for your age, people wondered what you had done; if you looked really bad, people felt sorry for you.

Until the very end, when she seemed to shrink and crumble in pain, my mother looked beautiful and had a youthful spirit that brought joy to everyone around her.

One of the many memories that keep Gigi alive for me is of her flitting around the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand, an apron protecting her elegant, often white, clothing, scampering from stove to sink to refrigerator as she prepared unforgettable meals. She had been an intellectual in Paris, never needing to cook until she came to the States and started missing her favorite French dishes, mostly those from her region of birth near Bordeaux.

Gigi’s mother, my Mami, had cooked good, simple meals, excelling at the puddings, pots de crème and tarts she so loved. Mami only liked sweets, taking tiny bites of meat or fish and teensy sips of soup to placate her husband. Toward the end, when she was in a nursing home, she refused to eat anything but desserts, and the Catholic Sisters were kind enough to oblige her.

But my mother’s grandmother had been a stellar cook, turning out sauces and stews, roasts and cakes with nothing but an icebox, two gas burners, a big kitchen fireplace, and well water that had to be pumped and carried up the stairs.  Gigi had spent many hours by her Mémé’s side, assisting and absorbing, and when the time came for her to cook for her own family, she instinctively knew what to do.

As a guide, she kept her grandmother’s cookbook, published in 1929, Traité de Cuisine Bourgeoise Bordelaise by Aleide Bontou. I treasure that little green book with its brown and tattered pages. There are no pictures, and very few measurements, just general directions in paragraph form, as if any decent cook would know exactly what to do when told “faites une liaison avec jaune d’oeuf et beurre.”  Translation: bind (or thicken) with egg yolks and butter, a tricky culinary maneuver, which , if done incorrectly, results in a curdled mess.

Here and there, I find my mother’s underlining in pencil, or a recipe slipped between the pages, and I feel as if she is in the kitchen with me. I also have many of her index cards with favorite recipes copied in her loopy script, recipes that made her reputation as the best (and prettiest) hostess in Denver, with a magical je ne sais quoi in the kitchen. I remember her laughing when she told me that her friends always asked why her coffee was so much better than theirs. She maintained she had no idea, but she did: she put real cream in every cup, not skim milk or some awful artificial whitener.

In Gigi’s mind, there was nothing wrong with cream or butter. She believed that many Americans were fat because they ate too much and the food they ate was artificial and tasteless. At the height of its popularity, margarine never crossed our threshold, nor did sugary cereals or peanut butter or ketchup.

Gigi thought the best breakfast for children was a thick piece of French bread slathered in butter and topped with a mountain of grated dark chocolate. In my goody-goody phase, I used to be appalled knowing my children were eating this at her house every morning (and probably every afternoon too!), but it was the same little decadence my grandmother had prepared for me when I lived in France as a child. I had loved it, and now they did too.

Sometimes Gigi would make her grandchildren macaroni and cheese with so much Gruyère that they could pull a strand of it up with their teeth, vying to see whose would break first. The winner would usually be standing up on his or her chair, while my mother laughed and my father scowled.

She also made their favorite stew, which she called Sauce au Vin (Wine Sauce), a variation of Boeuf Bourguignon. She never measured, but it’s an easy recipe. Take good stew meat, which you have asked the butcher, ever so sweetly, to cut into medium-sized cubes, toss them in flour and brown them in oil, with a little butter thrown in just because. Put the browned meat aside and sauté a lot of sliced onions in the same pot. Add a bouquet garni of bay leaves, thyme and parsley, then pour in a whole bottle of decent wine, preferably a Cabernet or Merlot or Bordeaux. (Gigi shunned cheap wines, believing they resulted in lousy stews and sauces. She would not, under any circumstances, have used Two Buck Chuck!) After the sauce has reduced a bit, put the meat back in the pot and cook the stew at very low temperature for about four hours. Check periodically and pour in more wine if necessary. Add sautéed mushrooms at the end, if desired, and serve over buttered egg noodles.

Gigi loved mushrooms, especially cèpes, which we know as porcini, and chanterelles. She had hunted wild mushrooms with her father as a child and was bewildered to discover that Americans didn’t know what they were. Surely they were somewhere to be found in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains. Later, when mushroom-hunting became popular and friends would bring them to her, she would cut them into smallish pieces and sauté them in olive oil with garlic and parsley, then serve them, sometimes as garnish, sometimes in velvety sauces, and sometimes as a filling for an omelet, eaten at lunch or dinner, never at breakfast.

Every year since Gigi died, I try to make something she loved on her birthday. In her last days, her one true love was still oysters on the half-shell. When we were kids in New Jersey, after dragging us around New York City, she would have to stop at the Oyster Bar in the Port Authority Bus Terminal and order a dozen oysters and a glass of white wine. She taught us to put only lemon juice on the oysters, and to make sure they hadn’t been washed, since that removed the taste of the sea. Before I learned to like oysters, I would watch in horror as she poked each one with a little fork to make sure it was still fresh and alive before she swallowed it.

I can’t shuck oysters no matter how hard I try. Unless my brother is with me, that dish is out of the question. But Gigi also loved scallops, and made a great Coquilles Saint-Jacques, with butter, shallots, white wine, mushrooms and a touch of cream. I think I’ll make that tonight and savor it as I drink to my beautiful mother’s memory.

Before I go shopping, though, I hear her voice in my head with another Frenchwoman’s commandment: Thou shalt never go out looking sloppy or badly dressed. It’s bad for you and even worse for those who have to look at you.

So, out of respect and the deepest love for Gigi, I am going to change out of my sweatpants, put on some lipstick, and head for the market, where I will smile and flirt with the fishmonger, just as my mother would have. Then I will make the scallops and a plain butter lettuce salad, the way she liked it, followed by a simple dessert of raspberries and Chambord with vanilla ice-cream. Before sitting down, I will toast her spirit with a fine Bordeaux while I thank her in silent prayer for being the best mother and grandmother anyone could wish for.

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On Watching Sports

When the 49ers won the Super Bowl in 1995, my three boys and their father raced out the front door of our San Francisco home and roared “49ERS RULE!” until they were hoarse. And they weren’t the only ones yelling… A chorus of male victory shouts rang out through the streets and well into the night.

Not that the 49ers are lacking female fans. My daughters and I are always happy if they win, and we’re not alone. But men seem to share a passion for their sports teams that is almost tribal. I have never heard two women discussing Monday Night Football at a cocktail party, yet I have listened to men meeting for the first time dissect an entire game together as if they were best buddies.

I don’t know of a single activity that unites women as passionately as watching sports unites so many men. There must be a gene that impels males to tether themselves to a seat in front of a television for hours on end, oblivious to everything but the game, the snacks and sometimes the beer.

It’s not just football, baseball and basketball either.  I have two sons who can watch golf for hours, as excited about a putt as they are about a touchdown. One dreary Sunday afternoon in Germany, I even witnessed my brother-in-law watching billiard tournaments!

One of my favorite young men, a former high school athlete, insisted that he never watched sports.  I believed him until I found out that he is obsessed with off-road truck racing. Something tells me that might be a sport…

When he was just a toddler, my youngest son, who never stopped moving and making mischief, would sit quietly next to his dad mesmerized by football. By the time he was seven, he could rattle off names and statistics for players on teams across the country. It was as if his brain had a separate computer dedicated to sports. By the time he was eight, he was on a city team. He played football through the end of high school, and I cheered with all the other parents even though I didn’t always understand what was happening. Every time my son was tackled, I would cringe and close my eyes and pray that he would get up again.

My middle son went through a baseball phase that included playing on a team, collecting cards and memorizing batting stats.  Oh, and watching the San Francisco Giants!

My oldest son loved soccer and traveled with an elite team. When I would hear the hum of some foreign crowd cheering and that peculiar nasal tone soccer commentators seem to share, I would know he was home.

As for tennis, I’ve lived with that male obsession for several years now. It was quite bearable until more and more of the women started grunting and letting out banshee cries with every ball they whacked.

In her last decade, my French mother started to watch the Denver Broncos. My brother explained all the football rules to her, and she would sit with him and his friends happily watching the games. But I don’t think it was football that excited her. It was hanging out with the guys…and her little crush on John Elway.

On Thanksgiving, the television is usually on all afternoon, with just enough of a pause for my boys to eat as much as they can, as fast as they can, before rushing back to their posts on the sofa.

My kids were with their father this year, but I did cook a few things to bring to a friend’s house.  And I turned on the television so I could hear the familiar background comfort of a football game.

Now if only I could remember what first-in-ten really means…

My Brother’s Keeper

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When Hurricane Sandy was heading toward New York, my first confused thought was, “I have to call my brother!” And then it hit me inside, like a kick in the stomach: my big brother was no longer in Westchester County. He was in an Alzheimer’s home in France, and I had put him there.

For three years, I flew back and forth between San Francisco and New York to try to save first his condominium, then his life, then his independence, then his rented apartment. Finally, defeated by his deterioration and the expense of New York’s memory care homes, I resorted to taking him back to France, just a few miles from where he was born, and leaving him in a place so far from me that now, despite the work, the worry, the responsibilities, the endless paperwork and all the legal battles I fought for him, I am filled with sorrow and regret.

“You did the right thing,” people tell me. Did I? I see him in my mind, wandering the corridors with empty-eyed men and women twenty years older than he is. I see him going outside to the small fenced courtyard to feed the chickens and stare at the familiar vine-covered hills of his childhood. I see him watching French television, restless and agitated whenever someone approaches, as he waits for a phone call or a visit, both so rare, both of which he will forget moments later.

But when I call him, I can see the smile on his face. “Maia, my sister, how are you doing?” he always asks, recognizing my voice instantly. “Are you coming to see me today?” And I lie. Yes, I lie again and again and again. I tell him not to worry, I’ll be seeing him soon, the way I used to. We’ll go out to dinner. We’ll have fun.

In truth, it may be many months or even years before I can afford a trip to France, and by then he may not recognize me at all.

What is the right thing to do? When my ex-sister-in-law alerted me to my brother’s decline, my first thought was, “Oh, he’s just getting more eccentric with age.” But she was persistent, and I finally flew out to find the most appalling scene I could have imagined. My brother, who cherished and refinished antiques, who was passionate about trout fishing and the environment, who spoke – and still speaks –four languages fluently, who had an MBA from Columbia University and managed the investments of rich foreigners, was living in squalor.

He had become a hoarder, unable to manage his money or his daily life, spending every penny he had on expensive meals and things he didn’t need. From the front door I inched my way through mounds of excess stuff, through a kitchen piled with dirty dishes, through a dining room littered with fishing rods and tackle boxes, to the one usable living room chair, where he sat watching grainy images on his vintage television, his beloved tabby cat on his lap, oblivious to just how bad his situation had become.

Upstairs was even worse: closets filled with dozens of expensive suits, slacks, shoes, shirts, and jackets, hundreds of ties, some with the tags still attached, drawers crammed with t-shirts and sweaters, boxes shoved under the beds and dressers, filled with who knew what. No wonder he was sleeping in his chair: a pile of unopened mail covered his bed.

When I started to sort through those envelopes and all the others littering the condo, I found that he owed every major credit card money, that his condo was about to go into foreclosure, that he owed the IRS a fortune in back taxes, and that he had liquidated the line of credit on his home and every savings account he ever had, including all of his retirement accounts. My brother, once well off and successful, was now completely broke and in serious debt. Somehow, I had to help him.

With the help of his forgiving ex-wife, we began cleaning the place, throwing out collections of empty cat food cans, wine bottles, plastic containers, magazines, newspapers, paper napkins – the list is far too long to recount. We filled one trash bag after another and snuck them out at night, so he wouldn’t see us. Otherwise, he would open the bags and look through them for hours, angered if we were getting rid of anything he found valuable, which was everything, from a pebble to a broken shell to a piece of wood he had found on one of his outings. The back of his van was crammed to the ceiling with objects he had taken from the streets or roads or garbage cans, objects he insisted could come in handy some day.

In the middle of one particularly bad night, he woke me up yelling, his face red with rage. He accused me of throwing out his favorite river rock (he had a huge collection!), a rock shaped like a heart. I was sure I had not, but afraid he might turn violent, I went out to the dumpsters in the biting cold, took back that night’s haul, and looked through every last item, finding nothing, as he sat staring at me in anger. The next morning, I found his precious rock in the kitchen.

I went back in November to continue the cleanup with my daughter. One morning we found him screaming outside in his underwear, angry that the squirrels were eating the birdseed he scattered everywhere, against his condo association’s regulations. People were getting into their cars to go to work and staring as I tried to gently steer him back into the house with the promise of eggs and bacon.

I went again in January, and then every other month. The house began to look better while my brother got worse and worse. Every time I returned, he had put new yellow post-its on the refrigerator, on the telephone, on the kitchen cabinets, on appliances he could not remember how to use, on his stereo buttons and his television remote control. I made him a notebook with all of his important numbers written down, but he would misplace it. There might be four post-its with our father’s number right on the phone, yet he would claim he couldn’t find the number. The message machine was always full, mostly with threatening calls from creditors.

Meanwhile, he had no awareness of his condition. He insisted on taking an exam to maintain his broker’s license so he could work again. He failed it repeatedly, always blaming someone or something and vowing he would pass it the next time.

Desperate to find out what was causing his mental decline, I took him from one doctor to the next. He had severe diabetes, high blood pressure, and cirrhosis.  He was ordered to stop drinking, which he ignored, repeating the same story that he never liked to get drunk growing up and had been raised the French way on red wine mixed with water until he was old enough for the real thing. Both of those statements were true. I had never seen him noticeably drunk, but he had obviously become a big drinker. His supply of expensive French wine was running out, so he started buying beer instead.  If I showed disapproval, he would wag his finger, furrow his brow and give me an angry lecture denying he had a problem.

After an exhausting series of tests, including one for mad cow disease, the diagnosis was always dementia. Probable cause: alcohol and uncontrolled diabetes or early onset Alzheimer’s. I got power of attorney, applied for disability, and put his house on the market.

On February 20, 2010, my sister-in-law called me to say that my brother was very ill and had called her to ask what he should do. The day before had been his 60th birthday, and he had drunk a few six-packs of beer outside of the nearby gas station with some guy he barely knew. He was throwing up blood. She called 911 and they took him to the hospital.

Everything was wrong with him, including a bad case of pneumonia. He went into a coma for days and was put on a ventilator. Once again, I was asked to decide whether or not to keep someone alive by artificial means. This time, I did not hesitate to say yes. He had a daughter I loved, and I was not about to give up on him. I was even naïve enough to think that he might regain his mental facilities!

When he came out of his coma, he remembered nothing. And when he finally returned, after escaping from the convalescent facility through a bathroom window, he denied that he had ever been hospitalized.  He had been gone for nearly a month. He had lost weight and seemed much healthier, but his mind was worse than ever.

And so it went. I arranged for Meals on Wheels and help with his utility bills, and he was approved for Social Security Disability payments. My sister-in-law agreed to come once a week, as did a social worker. But no one could control him, really. He would disappear in his van to feed feral cats or wander the country roads or shop and eat and drink in his old haunts with a new account he managed to finagle before I could close it and pay back all the overdraft fees.

Because the real estate market was so weak, it took months to sell his condo, and when it finally sold, at a greatly reduced price, paying back the liens and fees and attorneys left me with just enough for moving and rent and expenses his disability check could not cover. But where could he go?

I wanted to give my brother a chance to live on his own just a little longer.  He was much too young for a nursing home, and Medicaid had turned us down. So I lied again and made a great case that he was diabetic but fine otherwise and signed a lease for a coop apartment in a nearby town, where he could walk everywhere if he lost his driver’s license.  We painted the walls, sanded the floors and filled the place with his beautiful furniture, paintings and rugs. It was on the seventh floor, with a view of trees and sky and the sound of trains rushing by on the nearby rails. He loved it, and quickly forgot about his condo.

Wherever we went, he would pick up papers and garbage as he walked, railing against people who were pigs and had no respect for the environment. At home, he would spend hours cutting off loose threads from his towels or picking lint off the carpets with his fingers. Clearly, obsessive-compulsive behavior was part of his baffling disease.

The last time I took him to New York City, he wandered off in the subway station while I searched for him in a panic, calling out his name like a madwoman. I eventually found him dancing in front of a subway musician. By the time he had picked up all the trash on our way to H&R Block, we were very late. He fell asleep in his chair while the tax preparer was talking.

Every week, he would get into trouble of some kind or other, and I would get calls or e-mails from the building manager and his landlord. He kept parking in the wrong spot, usually the manager’s. He was feeding birds on his balcony. He crushed beer cans on the kitchen floor with his hard heels during the middle of the night. He told an old woman who was bugging him to go fuck herself. He got into a fight with the superintendent. One night he locked himself out of the building and pounded on the doors, yelling for someone to let him in, until someone called the police. His unpredictable behavior and angry outbursts cost him the renewal of his lease, although I did manage to get him a six-month extension by filing a bogus discrimination suit.

Finally, in November of 2011, police arrested him for driving erratically and impounded his car. By the time he told me, it was too late to get the van back, although I tried. I had ignored his doctor’s repeated advice to take away his car keys. How could I do that to my brother? Furious when he realized they had taken his precious van to the dump, he threatened to blow up the police department and set fire to their cars.

In three short years, I watched as my brother morphed into a demented man unable to care for himself. But when had it really started? And why had no one noticed when his eccentricity degenerated into madness? I felt guilty as hell.

April 1st loomed ahead of me, with no solution in sight. After his old cat died, we had gotten him a new one thinking that having the responsibility of a pet would help his mind.  Instead, he left open cans of cat food in every room of the apartment and forgot to change the litter. Already fat, the cat became positively obese.

I hired a wonderful woman named Dora to come in twice a week to clean, wash his clothes and arrange his medications.  They chatted away in Spanish, and she coddled him into taking showers and changing his clothes. Despite her efforts, he now slept fully dressed on top of his bedcovers. .

In March, he was hospitalized again for an infection in his hand that wouldn’t heal. He was forgetting to go for his infusions. Once he was better, the hospital refused to let him leave unless I promised he would have 24-hour care. He would wander away from his room, and the nurses would find him in CVS trying to buy beer. How could I afford 8-hour care, let alone 24-hour car?  So I lied to the social worker, signed a paper and faxed it back, and had Dora take him home.

I arrived a few days later. When I came to pick him up for dinner that first evening, he had disappeared. It was a cold wet spring day. I drove around and around looking for him.  I saw a homeless old man trudging through the slush with a black beanie on his head and big rubber boots on his feet. He was carrying two CVS bags, his eyes focused on the ground. He put the bags down and picked something up. I slowed and stared. It was my brother…

I had to hide my tears as I helped him into the car. He insisted on putting the bags in the trunk. As if I didn’t know they were filled with candy and beer! He had a daily limit on his ATM card, and every day he would walk to the bank to get his “lousy twenty bucks!” He was constantly losing the ATM card, or getting conned out of his money or getting kicked out of stores for stealing, a fact he thought he kept hidden from me.

Seeing my lonely brother bent over in the semi-gloom picking garbage off the sidewalk finally broke me. I gave up hope that I would find an affordable memory care home in Westchester County, which he loved so much. I gave up hope that I would ever be able to rent a place and pay for daily help, let alone have Medicaid help pay for it. I gave up hope that I could do anything more for him than pay his bills. He needed to be in a place where he was safe and cared for.

And so I lied again and bribed my brother with a vacation to France. Then I abandoned him to strangers.

He tells me how he has to clean the dining room after every meal – the people at this hotel eat so messily. How he saves the crumbs to feed his big birds.

“You mean chickens?”

“Yes, yes, chickens. “

He says he misses music and dancing.

“But I bought you a radio and your daughter bought you a CD player just before she left. She said she taught you to use it. “

“Really? I never saw them. I’ll have to look. I’d sure like to hear some Lady Gaga…”

Everyone says that I did the right thing, that I did what I had to do, that he’s healthy now and better off. But I would give anything to have him back!  Just to see him smile. Just to hear him tell the same stories over and over again and laugh out loud. Just to let him feel that someone he knows cares about him.

He may have lost his mind, but to me he is still the brother who wrote to me when I was far away in college, the brother who took my son and my daughter out to dinner every week when they lived in New York City, the brother who sent me a beautiful set of serrated knives with wooden handles for my birthday. The brother I love.

Who Decides When It’s Time to Die?

 

Lily was 17, a lovely black-and-white American pit bull, wiser and gentler than any dog I have ever known. My son had owned Lily since he was a teenager, but as his drug problem had escalated, his sense of responsibility had evaporated.  He had been smart enough, however, to realize that Lily needed better care than he could give, and he had let his girlfriend take her. Now clean after ten long years, he was driving to his ex’s house to tell Lily he loved her before the vet sent her off to eternal sleep.

Kept in prime shape with a raw food diet and regular exercise, Lily had outlasted her breed’s average life span. Although it seemed she would live forever, despite her arthritis and her hearing loss, despite her cloudy eyes and her mottled fur, she finally succumbed to a kidney infection. Incontinent and unresponsive, she lay on the bed with her eyes closed and her tail limp. It was finally time to say good-bye.

When he arrived, my son cradled Lily’s head in his arms.  She opened her eyes and licked his hand. Her tail came up and thumped lightly against his leg. He picked her up like a baby and pressed his nose to hers. She licked him again.

The scent and touch of her first owner seemed to bring Lily back to life.  My son placed her gently on the floor, and she took a few wobbly steps. The vet was called and cancelled.

Lily was no longer ready to die. Today, she is still getting by, slowly, sometimes painfully, but clinging to life, wagging her tail and enjoying every caress that comes her way. Lily will die sometime soon, of course, but not yet, not quite yet. She still has love to give and people who love her, no matter how frail and old she is.

Ten years ago, the doctors told me my mother was going to die. When I got to the intensive care unit, they had stuck a tube down her throat and tied her tiny hands to the bed. Weak and shrunken to barely 80 pounds, she had still summoned the strength to try to break free from the tubes and lines that bound her. When she saw me, her sea-green eyes filled with tears and her face crumpled into a look of frantic pain, as if she were begging me to release her from torture.

The nurse gave her more morphine.

A team of social workers and nurses escorted my brother and me to a windowless conference room. “Your mother cannot survive,” they told us. “Her lungs and heart are shutting down.” They asked if we wanted them to keep her alive no matter what or refrain from resuscitating her should she start to fail.

We went out to the hall, a depressing dull beige hospital hallway, and wept.

Long ago, my mother had asked me to help her die when she could no longer take care of herself. I had promised, but I later realized that I could never actually “pull the plug.” Now she had been ill for at least three years due to a pulmonary embolism, leashed to an oxygen tank, in and out of hospitals — where, being French and a picky gourmet, she refused to touch their nasty food or sip their cloying Ensure or even drink their water, which she had always hated. To please her, we would smuggle in red wine, oysters and strawberries. No, my mother would not have wanted to be revived, would not have wanted to be a burden, would not have wanted to have us suffer because of her.

So my brother and I signed the “do not resuscitate” order. They removed all her tubes, unhooked the clicking and buzzing monitors, and wheeled her out of Intensive Care. They put her in a little room with a big red dot above the door, a dot that meant “let this patient die.”

But she didn’t die. She woke up, saw us standing by her bed and smiled a big happy smile. She reached for our hands. We kissed her and smoothed back her blonde hair. She called us by name. My mother wasn’t ready to die!

We went out into that hall again and wept under the big red dot.

Every day that I went through that door, the red dot seemed to glare at me. Meanwhile, my mother continued to improve. The nurses and doctors called her “our miracle girl.”

One day, as I was painting my mother’s toenails a brilliant blue and laughing at how silly they looked poking out from the sheets, a nurse walked in. My mother looked up at her with a smile and said, “You see, I’m so much better now that my daughter came.” She gripped my hand and looked up at me with the sweetest look of love and gratitude.

She was giving me credit for her recovery when in truth I had signed her death warrant.

My mother lived another two years, slipping slowly away yet always eager to see her loved ones. She said knowing what her children and grandchildren were doing kept her wanting to live. At the end, we moved her to a hospice, where she received the most loving care.

The last day I saw my mother alive, she told me I was beautiful even though she could hardly speak.  But soon her breathing grew ragged and her translucent green eyes were fixed on a faraway place, a place I couldn’t see. I held her hand and I kissed her and I whispered how much we loved her and what a great mother she had been.  When she was finally ready to die, she did.

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Natalie Breuer

Natalie. Writer. Photographer. Etc.

mfourlbyhfourepoetry

p 1 o 2 e 3 m = Four By 4 By Four

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