She came home to die when the peaches hung heavy on the tree limbs. My siblings and I readied her room, put sheets on the recently delivered hospital bed, and cleared away her precariously balanced tower of clothes stacked on the chair. There would be no more life-prolonging procedures or prayers for miracles. There was only the hospice nurse who arrived bearing a small, white box full of “comfort medicines” packaged in slick bottles. Pain, anxiety, delirium, the death rattle—there was a solution for each symptom. I put the box in the fridge next to the butter.
Her days were few. We took turns sitting by her side. I wondered how to say goodbye to my mother in a 4-hour shift. I raised the bed, lowered the bed, moistened her lips with a wet swab, rearranged blankets, checked the catheter and combed her hair. I didn’t want to be still, to listen to her noisy, open-mouth breathing. But the night was long and I couldn’t think of any more duties to perform. I sat on the chair and held her hand. She opened her eyes and smiled at me. We both knew the future. She squeezed my fingers. The window air conditioner blew a draft of cold air on my back.
“Peaches,” she said slowly. “Did you get the peaches?”
“Not yet,” I replied. “But I will.”
Every year in late August, peaches consumed Mom and I. She knew a local farmer that sold grapefruit-size peaches that melted on your tongue and dripped from the corners of your mouth. We started with two bushel—one for Mom and one for me. We created a state fair display of peach products: jam, pie, cobbler, shortbread, lemonade, and ice cream. When my bushel dwindled to two or three unwanted, bruised peaches, Mom somehow knew and arrived on my porch with a fresh box. She did that often, arrived at my door unannounced when she was needed the most. When my husband was unemployed, she appeared with bread, soup, and milk. When I was alone on my birthday, she took me to lunch. When my teenage son needed a suit and there was no money for the purchase, she insisted on helping, even with her meager income, and shoved 20 dollar bills in my pocket.
At the end, there was no death rattle, no gasping. Her breathing simply got dimmer, indistinct, until it faded to nothing and quiet took over. As I drove home, I stopped and bought two boxes of peaches. One for myself and the other for a friend who needed to know that she was remembered. I think I figured out how to say goodbye.
