When No One Answers The Phone

It happened again yesterday. Pat and I drove down, on a beautiful glitter-snow day, to check the cabin; tromping in through thigh-high snow in whirling white. And I called Mom.
Mom's 88 years old; in full possession of an amazing brain, and despite the arthritis, fibromyalgia, high blood pressure, back issues, and pacemaker; does pretty darn well. She lives in her own house and visits elderly friends. She drives; though driving to Duluth now is out of her range, by choice. She is fiercely independent and continually amazed by life and learning. "That's so INTERESTING!" is a frequent mantra.
I've always had a fear of losing Mom. Perhaps, because my father died when I was 13, that sudden loss was so inscribed on my emotions that I've constantly held the reality of death out there, so as not to be caught off guard next time. I wear the anticipation like a raincoat in the desert; anticipating that rare time when it might actually rain.
For years, and especially as she's aged, I've envisioned and rehearsed the moment of losing her. It happens like this: "She's not answering the phone. What if she fell? What if she has had an accident? What if???" There will be an obligatory call to my sister, or my nephew, with the issuance of a casual "Is Mom with you?" that belies my anxiety level. A flood of relief if the answer is "Oh, she's right here! She forgot her cell phone!"; and eternal moments of more dread if it's "No. How long since you've talked to her? Ok, I'll stop over there and check..."
So, as I stood wrapped in blissful sparkly woods, calling both phones for the second time in an hour, the thoughts streamed out - like turkey vultures rising up on the thermals. Where IS she? She should be home from church by now. What if she forgot her cell phone and went out after church? Is she with Barb?" I dialed with pudgy mittened fingers.
"No, she said she was going to her own church today" my sister said. "How long have you been trying?"
"An hour."
"Sometimes she forgets to turn her cell phone back on, and she doesn't always get the buttons pushed right."
Quite airtime as we both contemplated the scene...
"I'm on my way home", my sis offered, "I'll stop by there."
"Call me!"
"I will."
Snow glitter faded in the sun; and I noticed a deer ribcage, gnawed, on a bed of tracks.
Moments ticked.
I looked at my watch. Why didn't I go down today? I could have visited this weekend.
Hiked more through oppressively deep drifts.
Looked at my watch again. We still haven't finished her family history...
Noticed thin blades of dried grass, carrying seemingly impossible snowballs; bent but not broken.
Looked at my watch. One good summer at least, God. To be together. I'll spend the time. I promise.
Trudged a few more yards.
Felt myself staying UP on a snow crust layer in places; in others, breaking through to the very bottom.
Looked at my watch. How peaceful it would be to die in one's own bed. Am I selfish for wanting to be there when it is time?
The electronic interruption of the cell sounded strange in the white. "Yeah." I answered, almost before I'd pressed the button.
"Well, I'm here," drawled my sister, with no apparent urgency in her voice. I felt my back unknot.
"She's not here, and her car is gone" Barb said. "I think she might have gone to Target or something."
"Good." I offered. "Yeah, good." she repeated, softly. We both know, each time this rehearsal occurs, that one time it will not be rehearsal.
Though only minutes had passed, life was different. Though my location had not changed appreciatively, my position had.
A few minutes later, the cell broke through again. "Hey!" I said, "Where've you been?"
Mom's voice read "irritation", a tone I've known well since childhood.
"Well," she said. "Bernice and I were having lunch at McDonald's, and here comes your sister! What a surprise! She said you were looking for me."
'We both were' I thought - but didn't offer this aloud. We've become accustomed to being the 'fall guy' for one another on the Mom front. "Just wanted to make sure you're OK." I said, brightly. After some extended chatter on how hard it is to get her cell phone on, we ended agreeing to talk a little later.
Rehearsal over, for now. God bless you, Mom. We sure like having your here.