Mother Stay

Mother Stay Jennafer D'Alvia (bio) Click for larger view View full resolution Photo by Andrew [End Page 88] It's true what you've heard. There was once a special day when mothers came back from the dead. It happened on a Saturday, so we were all off from work when the mothers floated down from heaven or wherever they had been. At first we were confused. Clumped together and far away, they looked like a giant cloud softening the sunlight. But soon we could make them out: our own dearly departed mothers, and quite alive once more. They fell vertically, like streaks of raindrops on an enormous window, and as their shapes became more and more distinct, we peered up into the sky, trying to find our own. [End Page 89] Of course, it wasn't all the mothers who'd ever perished in the history of the world—that would have been impractical. Only those who'd died in the past year were allowed to come back. I say "allowed," though no one knew how the thing transpired. It may well have been that there was no decision behind it. The mothers might simply have returned as water comes back to the earth in the form of rain. It felt that way at the time, like some kind of natural phenomenon. In any case, some of the ones who didn't get their mothers back became angry; they retreated into their houses with headphones and videos, trying to block out the assault of returned mothers. They were right; it wasn't fair. Still, there was no point in feeling guilty over good fortune. And when my own mother floated down to my front lawn, I wasn't thinking about those others. What she looked like? That's a good question. When I was growing up, my mother was a slim brunette. Then, through the years, she remained thin, while her hair went completely white. But the mother who stepped out of the sun's glare and onto the lawn in front of my house was neither of these ladies; she was a girl of sixteen—exactly half my age—curly-haired and ten pounds overweight. I'll admit, I was startled by my mother's teenage condition. I wanted her back the way she had been—older than I, slender and motherly. When Mom threw her arms around me, the extra teenage chub prevented me from getting the kind of close hug we used to have. She gave a childlike, romantic embrace, as if she wanted everyone in the neighborhood, if not the world, to know how much she'd missed her daughter. I was reassured by the fact that her scent was the same as ever: fresh and doughy. Over her shoulder, I saw my neighbor Pamela Wimple smiling, so happy for me and for herself too. She was holding her newly arrived toddler-mother by the hand. I smiled at her and nodded. It wasn't unusual that my mother had come back as a teen. In fact, the mothers arrived at different ages and in different states of health. Some, like Pamela Wimple's mom, returned as young girls who ran around the yard, while others came back and lay down directly in their hospital beds; they hooked themselves up to IVs and oxygen tanks, then fell in and out of painful sleep. A few even came as young as babies: tiny, maternal infants who needed constant care. I was lucky to have mine back as a teen—to have her at all. In the morning, after her shower, Mom and I sat on the back deck, overlooking the yard. We drank coffee—light and sweet for my mom; [End Page 90] milk, no sugar, for me. Next door, my neighbor was cutting his lawn, and there was a fresh smell of cut grass and gasoline in the air. "Mom, when you were here before," I told her, "I loved you so much. But now you're precious to me." She looked startled by my admission and wary, as if I were expressing a sentiment that she couldn't understand or reciprocate. She smiled...

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