The Last Days of My Mother

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I had decided to take Mother to die in Amsterdam. The terminal echoed the discords of the northern gales outside, and behind us herds of drowsy people trudged along toward the security gates. Mother stood next to me in silent conversation with the cosmos while rummaging through her handbag. She believed in maximum utilization of carry-on luggage and made sure I carried my weight — and hers. I’d suggested sending a box or two by mail or paying for the extra weight, but she wouldn’t hear of it. It was simply depressing to watch how I squandered money.

“Like that apartment you shared with Zola,” she continued while we fed our things onto the conveyor belt for the X-ray machine. “Very high maintenance, that woman. And then she just takes off with some Frenchman.”

“That’s not quite what happened.”

“Mind you, you’re much better off without her, Trooper. I know you don’t like to talk about it, but let me just say this once and for all: she didn’t deserve you.”

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