Jessie and I drove down to
Montreal for lunch today, to visit with my Mom (Jessie’s Grams) in her new
apartment in a seniors’ residence. While the condo she and my Dad had lived in
for more than 16 years is still on the market, she decided to go ahead and make
the move this past fall. When Jessie found out that the condo was being sold
and Grams was moving she cried for days. “But where will we . . . ?” There is
that. As her move changes everything about us being in Montreal as a family. No
more staying in the guest bedroom, no more quick afternoon jaunts to the movie
theatre, no more Jessie & Daddy swims in the pool downstairs, no more
Christmas, Thanksgiving, or Easter dinners—or at least not in the way we used
to celebrate them. It will all be new and different, and Jessie doesn’t always
do new and different too well.
But today, when she walked
into the apartment, her eyes lit up, first at Grams, and then as she surveyed
the room. While the apartment is probably one-eighth the size of the condo, all
the important bits seem to be there: the art, including the John Little painting of Dorchester Square and the Molly Lamb parade; the bridge table; the colours and chintzes that, although new, are so
typically my mother; the books and the mahogany desk; and the rich warm colours
with bold accents that have always graced my mother’s choice of décor.
 |
| Grams, Jessie & cousin Derek in Montreal |
Jessie turned to me and smiled,
and then grinned and ran into Grams’ arms. “I am so relieved!” she said, “It is
just like home!” Meaning that it was just like the condo, just like all that
she was familiar with and that was important to her. And I realized that she
was worried that a new place would mean a whole new Grams and a whole new
relationship and a whole new way of being. But it is, indeed, like home, in all
the ways that matter. And I am not so sure that that has anything to do with
the paintings and the décor, or only to do with the paintings and the décor in
as much as they reflect who my mother is, and that which she brings with her
where ever she goes. And that, as my smart and loving daughter recognized, that
inner kernel of selfhood and rooted grace drawn out to bloom through
relationship, is what makes it familiar and “home.” Because she could still be
with Grams in this place, and because Grams was still Grams, then it was still,
much to her relief, home.
