Taking a Memory

If you’re wondering how she did it, you’re asking entirely the wrong question; any debate about whether a dying woman managed to create a work of art herself or paid someone misses the salient point. I don’t care if it sounds tedious—obsessing over details; you know I’ve never been one to argue semantics. Still, I can hear your voice in my head telling me the reason I never argue is there’s nothing about which I care enough to be passionate. At least try to understand how important this one thing is to me—it’s the only request I’ve ever made and I’m trying to spare you a guilt trip.

Since it would be laughable to claim I have no regrets, I can admit work pulled me away far too often and—on more than one occasion—an anniversary gift was bought at the last minute. But at least I can say I did right by your mother as far as buying that house. She hated the stuffy little apartment I rented during grad school. I suggested we get a cat, hoping she’d take the hint and nurture the little stray who liked to hiss at me from behind the trash dumpster. Instead, she took up container gardening.

That’s probably why she started working at the library—going back to research again and again until it just made sense to work there. At least she had something to do. Moving to a house was a relief—for her it meant space for more plants; for me less time on the road. The pathetic fact of the matter is from the list of places in our price range, I only considered those closest to my office, although she must have suspected. Though she never complained about the hours I kept, the scale of her endeavors revealed the depth of her loneliness, her final venture being the cultivation of the pear tree out back. It’s a Bartlett, by the way. And I’ll bet you didn’t realize it was planted shortly before she found out she was pregnant, which adds sentimental value.

When she wasn’t fussing over that tree, she was gazing at it from the window. She’d sip her tea and flip through one of those gardening magazines she liked so much. It seemed sacrilegious to get rid of them—don’t think I wasn’t expecting outrage from everyone who visited—but how would a medical bed have fit in the dining room otherwise? I was secretly relieved when she insisted upon that; I probably wouldn’t have had the guts to argue with the hospice workers. I was already feeling defeated, unsure of how to break the news to her about the highway expansion. That was when I decided to let everyone think I’m detached and unfeeling. I begged the nurses not to mention the city’s construction plans if they happened to see it in the paper or on the news. All any terminally ill person wants is to spend their remaining days enjoying what’s most precious to them before leaving it behind.

You were right to call me selfish when you popped in after the funeral and saw everything boxed up. There’s no justification for why I kept the city’s offer from you. In all fairness, I didn’t tell the hospice staff, either. Yet, I know: you’re my own flesh and blood, actually related to one at the center of all this. I guess at the time I felt protective for whatever that’s worth. There was nothing I could contribute besides money, having already paid off the mortgage, making sure the utilities were covered, hiring the nurses, rented everything they recommended… alleviating the burden of knowing the house would soon be torn down was the only thing money couldn’t buy.

In hindsight, my judgement was poor, as usual, but perhaps you can cut me a little slack seeing as how I’m moving to a furnished unit in one of those corporate apartment complexes. They’re as generic and sterile as a sales display in a furniture showroom but all the money from the house is going to pay professionals to dig up the tree, transport it and replant it in your yard. I can only imagine how much the kids will enjoy watching it bloom each season, picking its fruit and making pie, or crisp, or whatever else your mother taught you. All I ask is the right to keep a reminder of the one thing I’m certain I ever did right. Please don’t fight me for the painting of the pear tree.