In Momma's Room

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Boxes were stacked everywhere. The fireplace needed a cleaning. Padding hid the piano. Yet when I looked around our new house on moving day, I knew we’d found the perfect home. There was a big master bedroom for Terry and me, separate bedrooms for the girls, and best of all, a guest room for my parents. Now we wouldn’t always have to travel to their house for visits. My whole life I’d felt safe and loved in Momma’s house. More than anything I wanted to make her feel that way in mine.

She’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, and osteoporosis slowed her down. I wasn’t sure how much longer she’d be able to travel, so I wanted to get right to work decorating. Singing to myself, I sliced open a box. Just wait till I fix up the guest room, I thought.

The bed was delivered, one with a nice firm mattress, just like Momma liked. The wallpaper and curtains suited Momma to a tee. The window looked out on our front yard. Everything was ready. But when I called Daddy to arrange a visit, he didn’t think it was a good idea. “It’s the five-hour drive,” he said. “We just don’t think we can make it right now.”

Momma spent more and more time in the hospital. “The chances of her ever making the trip are slim,” my sister, Karen, warned from back home.

That didn’t stop me. I added a comfortable chair to the guest room, singing as I arranged it just so. God, let Momma see this room I’ve prepared for her, I asked. Just once.

The new chair gave me an idea. Momma was a big fan of the Marjorie Dean book series. I used to snuggle under my blankets as a child while Momma read volume after volume to me. She had been heartbroken when her set was destroyed in a flood. I’d replace them!

I scoured used bookstores and garage sales for early editions. Meantime, Karen investigated nursing homes for our momma. Daddy could no longer give her the round-the-clock care she needed.

“You don’t have many more to go,” Terry said as he watched me put my newly purchased Marjorie Dean, High School Freshman on the bookshelf. I nodded and ran my finger over the spines. Whenever we drove to Momma’s house for a visit, I brought a volume with me.

By the time we’d really settled into our new house, the Marjorie Dean set was long since complete. Karen called one afternoon and told me she’d found a place for Momma. I drove up to help with the move. The nursing home was immaculate, and the staff caring. Still, when I saw Momma’s room, I couldn’t help but think of the one I’d prepared for her.

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