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Noble Gas I stared at the helium-filled balloons my six and 3-year-old grandsons, Ryan and David, directed me to hold; keep the strings tight around the fingers, they said. It was a bouquet of their favorite colors some with pictures of cartoon characters. The boys and their parents, my son and daughter-in-law live in Boston, and were visiting me in California. I had my grandsons to myself for a few hours while their parents shopped. We took the shortcut from my house through the parking lot to the playground. They ran ahead to the jungle gym, climbed on the swings and tried every piece of playground equipment. A few times, Ryan turned to me, pointed to the balloons with a smile, and mouthed something in my direction. David followed in pantomime. Sitting there, I felt a cool burst of autumn air tug at the balloon strings. I tightened my hold and thought about the pleasure and pull of family. Helium, I recalled, the noble gas that heads the series in the periodic table of elements; weightless, colorless, odorless and tasteless, able to lift little Mylar balls in defiance of gravity. Had the balloons not been tethered to my fingers, I wondered, and smiled at the prospect. The season brought me back to another fall, decades ago when my sister, Jenny and I visited our mother at the hospice in northern Virginia. Mom loved the time of the year, cool enough for a light jacket leaving the face and hands warmed and exposed to the sun, and the fresh air on her face. That morning, Jenny and I lowered her into a wheelchair for a ride around the block. She looked long at the trees in the neighborhood, at the leaves of brilliant reds and orange, and murmured along the way, beautiful, beautiful. In the six months since Mom was diagnosed with cancer, the disease had sucked the physical strength and resilience from her body. She looked frail, able to stay awake for only a few minutes at a time and fell often into deeper and longer stretches of sleep. During the week we were there, the doctor warned that in Mom’s state, she could slip into a coma. My brother, John, was working in Hawaii then, and planned to take early retirement within a few years. He continued to build a house with an in-law apartment for Mom. “She’ll come through,” he said. I convinced him to come right away. Mom’s bed faced the door. She watched John enter the room, and for an instant, became her former buoyant self. She sat up and flashed a smile. He gave me a questioning look as if to ask, was this trip necessary. “She looks fine,” he said, looking at Mom. He kissed her cheek, held her face in his hands, and examined her “hairdo.” The hair was cut close around the face making her look almost bald from the front. She paid little attention to the back where the long, unruly salt-and-pepper shank of hair was pinned down with a large barrette. “Nice, Ma,” John said, turning her face around for a better look. “So long as you like it, right?” he said. She gave the standard response, “My business,” as she had to the countless times in the past anytime a comment was made about her individuality. John’s presence always cheered her. I remembered past antics when we were teenagers; at 16 John towered above Mom in height. He used to pick her up, swing her around, reduce her to peals of laughter and, in the twirl she overlooked his misdeeds. “Don’t encourage her,” Jenny said, having watched John exam Mom’s hair. “She’ll want her scissors next to clip the unruly ends.” “What are you talking about,” Mom said, and lay her head back. John sat on the other side of her bed, and began to take out a few of the watermelon seeds from the bag he brought with him. Food, we knew, was a high enjoyment in Mom’s life and cracking watermelon seeds were reminders of an earlier life in China before our family immigrated to this country. Mom used to tell about cracking the seeds between her teeth and got so expert that she could hold several of them in her mouth, extract the soft insides one at a time, and spit each empty shell out in sequence. She delighted in seeing the pool of empty shells increase around her place at the table. Eyes closed, Mom asked John, “What are you eating?” John cracked a few seeds for her and placed the soft insides in her mouth. The salty taste whetted Mom’s appetite. She enjoyed the flavor, complained about the blandness of hospice meals, and longed for the favorite dishes of her youth. Jenny went to find the soft ice cream that Mom liked. As soon as Jenny left, Mom whispered “She’s out with her boyfriends, likes to sneak out, you know.” “See? Mom’s ok,” John said, turning to me. “Did she tell you I was out cavorting with my boyfriends at the corner candy store?” Jenny said, returning with a dish of soft vanilla swirl. The image of Jenny, her middle-aged form fending off the hormonal urges of local youth made the three of us explode into loud laughter. Mom heard the reaction and smiled. Jenny fed Mom a few more spoonfuls and Mom dozed off. John, dismissing Jenny’s usual attempt at keeping score between them, re-arranged Mom’s pillows, began to read the newspaper, and suggested that Jenny and I take a break. We returned within an hour to find John flat on the floor in visible pain. “Mom wanted to go to the bathroom,” he said. “I asked if she needed help. She said no. I offered my arm anyway for support and helped her to sit up. She lowered her feet to the floor and her legs gave out,” he said. “So, how did she get back to bed?” Jenny asked. “I lifted her up and carried her back. She couldn’t stand on her own. I threw my back out doing it,” he said. “The nurse came in, checked on Mom, and gave me some pain medication. I lay back on the floor to relieve the pain,” he said, “She looked strong….” Mom’s breathing was barely audible and we understood the doctor’s prediction. I knew that regardless of her condition Mom was aware of John’s pain and I exercised the position as the eldest. “Mom would want you to go home and take care of yourself,” I said. John agreed that in his condition, he needed to leave despite having spent only half a day with Mom. He inched his way towards her, and kissed her cheek. A few hours after John’s flight took off, Mom died. “Grandma, Grandma,” I heard my grandsons giggle, “you let one of the balloons go.” I gathered them in a hug and watched the little ball lift in noble majesty. Lily Owyang lives in Geyserville, Calif. and comes to writing from a variety of roles in previous careers. Her attention turns now to learning more about the art and craft of writing, take new risks for the exchange of discovery and insight.
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