In the Moment     by  Margaret Coghlan

 

"I'm going to have a croissant today," I declare as I lovingly place my weekly treat in the oven.

"What is it? Croozant? That must be French," Mum states with some authority as she finishes off her cereal.

‘When no-one else can understand me …Whoa…Whoa ... Whoa…

When everything I do is wrong …Whoa…Whoa ……

The Wonder of you………‘

"That's Elvis isn't it?" Mum says as she cranks up the volume on the radio, "I love this song."

I cringe as I think of the poor neighbours-maybe they'll think Elvis is back from the dead.

‘…… Bunerong Memorial Park is the perfect place for peaceful

reflection… I didn't want my family to worry …I wanted a place they

could come and remember me …… '

"Not another funeral ad!" Mum hollers, reaching over to turn off the radio. There does seem to be a preponderance of funeral ads on 'Mum's station', especially in the mid to late morning breakfast time, perfect timing for their potential clients perhaps?

'Heart' tablets, painkillers taken and recorded, Mum levers herself up from the table, secures her wheelie frame and says, "I'll move over to my chair for a cuppa".

She shuffles over to her comfy armchair; her back so stooped from the ravages of osteoporosis, her head is horizontal to the floor. In fact, conversing with Mum often consists of me talking to the top of her head and Mum talking to my feet.

Wheelie frame, locked and in position, Mum slowly lowers herself into her armchair. She swivels her upper body around to see the clock.

"Oh. Nearly eleven o'clock," she pronounces. "News time. Better bring the radio over here, Marg."

Armed with her cuppa, a choc chip cookie, my croissant and the transistor radio, a treasured present from Dad in the early 70s, I proceed to her chair. I place the cuppa on its well-worn coaster on the table beside her, the choc chip cookie on a plate on her lap and the radio on the seat of her frame in front of her. Hmm .. I ponder as she turns on the radio full bore, I wonder if this news will be any different to the news we heard at eight, nine and ten?

Magic 1278. The best songs of all time. Here is the 11 o'clock news.

Two teenage boys were stabbed overnight at a party in Dandenong …

..... The city temperature is now thirteen degrees … '

"That means it's eleven degrees out here," Mum says, following the morning ritual of subtracting two degrees; proud of the fact we're colder than the city.

As the weather report finishes, I turn down the volume and take the opportunity to inform her of some local news.

"Helen told me John Slevison died yesterday."

"Who? John Leverton?" Mum questions, cupping her hand over her ear, frowning, trying to catch the name.

I move closer so she can read my lips.

"No, Slev-i-son. Tall, skinny, grey beard. On the Parish Council," I mouth slowly using the loudest voice I can muster.

She frowns again, trying to decipher and digest the news.

'You fill up my senses like a night in the forest ……

"I s'pose I'd know him if I saw him ….." Her eyes wander, her frown relaxes as she is distracted by the easier concentration option now presenting itself on the radio. "That's John Denver, isn't it? I love this song," she says, the frown now dissolving into a contented smile.

She turns up the volume until poor John is so distorted he sounds like his batteries are going flat. She settles back, breaks up her cookie into bite size pieces and hums along.

'Come let me love you. Come love me again …..’

At ninety-one years of age, Mum snatches any little joys coming her way. I take her lead, forget about informing her of the local news and relinquish myself to the celestial heights of the music. I sit back in my comfy chair and sink my teeth into my delicious jam filled, buttery croissant, happy to just be in the moment with Mum.