It was fitting that we ended up in the
church we had mostly grown up in. Attired in jackets, ties or dress,
we paraded down the main aisle reminiscent of Christmases long ago.
But this time, we had reserved seats, and no usher necessary to seat
us.
Back when we were scattered about at
various school locations, Christmas was the only time of the year
when we were all together. We always went to midnight mass on
Christmas Eve with my parents going at about 11:00 p.m. to save good
seats for everyone. The rest of us kids would arrive just before the
opening procession.
It must have been difficult to hold
onto those seats for the entire family for an hour. That service is
always very popular with standing room only by 11:30 p.m. Mr. P, the
head usher, prided himself on being able to fill the pews with 600
people when normal maximum capacity should have been 400. He would
stand next to a pew, hold up the number of fingers representing the
number of people he intended to seat there, then beckon with a wave
of those fingers. If no one came forward, he would start pointing at
specific people standing against the back wall. Then he would look
down at the people in the pew with a stern face that seemed
to say, "You best be moving over."
I'm sure he tried several times over
the years to force people into the pew my mom had reserved with
coats. My dad probably didn't care and would have thought "serves
the kids right for waiting until the last minute to show up."
But I'm sure my mom gave Mr. P a glare
that said, "You best be looking to seat those people elsewhere."
And every year, we would saunter in
just before midnight and sit in the pew that my mom had
saved.
I think we always thought our "just
in time appearance" irked her considerably. But we found out
years later that she loved having us dressed in our best clothes
parading through the entire congregation to our seat as if showing
off the family. She said we looked like the mafia all dressed up
with stern looks on our faces. Except for the crime, I guess.
I'm glad we did it one last time for
her.
Five or six years ago, after another
Christmas visit, I prepared to leave my parents' house to catch my
flight. My mom still displayed a sense of understanding with an
occasional word, maybe a laugh and that goofy look as if saying, "Are
you kidding me?" I wore some ghastly t-shirt with raised
lettering, and when I went to hug her goodbye, she traced the "S"
on my shirt with her finger and said, "Superman."
I don't know if it was a lucid thought,
a hibernating memory suddenly shot out of the dark recesses of the
brain or if she was even talking about me. But I chose to think she
was talking about me. I almost missed my plane because of having to
pull over a few times to clear my eyes and get my thoughts together.
All these years later, it has finally
dawned on me that she wasn't talking about me at all. She was
talking about my dad. I don't know anyone that would or could
possibly argue that he isn't Superman.
Most people, simply from watching
television if nothing else, are familiar with the classic marriage
vows, "to have and to hold, in sickness and health, until death
do us part." I don't know if those vows are still in use, but
I'm pretty sure it's hard to find a minister who actually believes it
or can say it with a straight face. In my lifetime, I doubt I will
witness anyone that can honor those vows as my parents did for 57
years.
"To have and to hold": that
first dance, holding hands, that first kiss, a wedding kiss, an
embrace on the first born, then another child, and another child,
etc. A few stolen moments on weekend getaways, the kitchen make-out
sessions when you thought there were no kids around (or just didn't
care), the hugs upon family deaths, weddings, and minor surgeries.
Holding hands in a custom built treehouse as the sun sets, holding
her up on the first slip to holding/carrying her wherever she needed
to go, to the final act of placing her in her resting place.
In retrospect, I guess the kids should
have been the ones saving the seats for my parents at Midnight Mass.
We might not have staved off Mr. P the usher with an easy glare, but
with two lawyers in the family, they'd issue subpoenas and
depositions while the rest of us engaged in fisticuffs,
half'-nelsons, full-nelsons, eye-gouging ("Hey Mr. P, I got two
right here!") and quite possibly a Stooges pie fight.
My parents probably would have avoided
the fracas and simply taken a seat somewhere in the back. My mom
would have put her head on my dad's shoulder and said, "Oh how I
love them."
And we love her too, forever and ever.
