Worthy Witness

Late August sun bathed the cozy, west-facing second-floor apartment with light and shadows.  Her white hair shone translucent as she offered each of us cookies and lemonade, Jesse’s favorite.

 Jesse, my youngest daughter of three, drug addicted for over a year, had been on the streets for three weeks and suddenly, as though she had never left, came home.  I awoke that morning to bathe myself in prayer and was going to that sacred place when our eyes met.

 Her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes were sunken into dark-circled sockets; her figure, once shapely and golden was emaciated and colorless.  Dressed in shorts, a tank top and sandals, she looked to be a teen-age runaway of 13 rather than an adroit college graduate of 23.  Lovely golden hair that I longed to brush was as tangled as a hare’s warren.  Neither of us spoke, and the silence washed over us in centrifugal waves.

 “Mom, can I stay?”  The spell of silence was broken.  “I’ll die if I go back.”  A voice unrecognizable, surely not mine,  from the bowels of hell itself,  said, “No.”   As we both contemplated the finite quality of the word,  I wrapped my arms around her frailty.  The word had resonated, bounced off the walls and ceilings, and settled as a fine ash.

Jesse stayed the day, sleeping through most of it.  Refreshed, and washed of all street debris, I asked, “Will you visit Grandma with me?”  “Yes,” she said, after I make a few calls.”

Mom told us she had been sick that night and spent the day with my sister.  “Something tugged at me all day,” she said, “and I knew I had to come home.”  Frail, a bit unsteady on her feet, she walked us to the door.

“Mom,” Jesse said, “Grandma is on the deck waving to us.”  My mother was bathed in sunlight; an aura of gold wrapped her from head to toe.  In a timeless pose, she raised her hand to wave.  blowing us a kiss, she held her hand upright as though in benediction.  Her last words were, “I love you Jesse.”

We left.  Jesse’s friend picked her up; no phone number to reach her; no forwarding address.  We hugged tight, and it was me who finally let go.  I waved as they drove out of the driveway; blew a kiss.

The phone call came to my brother’s house.  My mother had died, perhaps minutes after we had left.  Months later, Jesse called me from rehab, her third try.  “I’m ready to live,” she said, “will you help?”  There was no hesitation.  “Yes, come home.”