by Focus
© 1999 Focus, all rights reserved
Margo is in a silky blue dress that somehow looks Hawaiian. I am in slacks, but they are nice: black velvety cords, that pick up the black, and contrast with the oriental looking blue, purple, and gold in my shirt. We are on our way to pick up my mother, and to attend a Mother's Day Tea at the church.
When we arrive at Mom's house, my mother is ready and waiting. She is wearing the sky-blue suit with a string of pearls. Her make-up is neatly applied; her hair is done up fancy. Her feet are in white high-heels. I give Mom a hello hug, and she feels fragile in my embrace. I can feel the bones of her spine through the cloth. Her cheek is soft and powdery against my cheek. I tell her she looks lovely, and she does.
The church is already full of women when we arrive, women of all ages. We stand in line on the carpeted floor of the fireside room. We sign in, and get our name tags, pinning them to our outfits with long slender pins with pearl heads. We greet women we see every week at church, and strain our minds (and our eyeballs, because, thankfully, many of them are wearing the name tags) in an effort to put the correct name with each person.
We pose for our picture, Mom on the chair, Margo on the stool, and me standing behind: a three-generational ensemble. We stand aside to give Mom room to get to her feet again. The after image of the flash remains in our eyes as we make our way to the table.
Mom's step granddaughter-in-law, Suzy, is already there, with her mother. We sit on hard metal folding chairs, cross our feet at the ankles, and make small talk. Ladies from the church are going from table to table, pouring liquid into delicate glass teacups. "Coffee, tea, or punch?" I take the punch, a tart orange drink that tickles my throat as I sip it.
Food is already at our places. Each of us has an assortment of cookies, open-faced sandwiches, thin-sliced fruitbreads, and roll-ups, plus fruit on a skewer. The sandwiches really appeal to me, the sweets not so much. My little sandwich has cream cheese and a slice of olive; Margo's sandwich is deviled egg with olive; Mom's is egg too, but hers has a decorative design: slivers of pickle representing the stems and leaves of a flower, with olive slices for the blooms.
Someone is playing a medley on the piano. My musical daughter keeps asking me if I recognize the tunes, and gloating when I don't, but she does. Finally I recognize a song, "You'll Never Walk Alone", that she does not know. I get to gloat until the next song starts. She knows it; I don't, once again.
We chat. Did you know Dan Peters is getting married again? Lois Owens had a stroke, and it has really affected her memory. She doesn't play bridge well any more. See those two ladies? They are sisters. In Aukland they have tea, but they don't have teas, like this. Isn't that a cute baby?
Soon it is time to go. Sweet tooth is sated. Perhaps we'll meet for Mother's Day dinner tomorrow? That depends, though, on what plans others are making. We drop Mom off at her house, with one last hug. (She is so fragile! I am still not used to Mom being fragile.) We head for home.