And so it was today when I couldn't muster the concentration to remain on one channel long enough to become engulfed in it's story. The Kubrick documentary and the french film (of which I know well enough to no longer have too read the english subtitles) could not contain my restlessness and I went for door number three; Strangers in Good Company. The unassuming description, light handling of the material and soft-spoken words of the actresses did not prepare me for the ocean I slipped into. I was watching the vulnerability of elderly women and suddenly overcome with thoughts of my Mother. Guilt. Loathing. Then more guilt. In her last months she was so vulnerable, so very fragile. why wasn't I better to her? And the thing is, I was quite good to her---but I could have been better. Much better. I remember lying on my bed thinking ' I should be in there with her now, listening. Loving. Ah, but there was time. I had it all planned for her to live another five years at least. Death and life are funny like that. The hours I stole for myself before cooking her meals or filling her requests or just visiting with her - those hours are like bitter indelible scratches on the mirror I must gaze into at myself. I feel selfish and small and not at all someone she would respect. But I know she did.
And I'm smart enough to know that regrets are as much a waste of my hours as those I spent alone when i should have been with her. My sibs tell me I did so much more than they did. But I could have done better. I know she loved me.
But my face is warm and wet. I will cry until I am no longer alone.
