When Fireflies Wink
© Nanette Thorsen-Snipes
This story may not be used without permission from the author.

It is at twilight that I remember Mama best. I can still see
her chasing fireflies, her skirt swinging below her knees.
As the fading sun slips behind Georgia pine trees, it leaves
the sky blanketed with a sunburst of orange. A glow radiates
from Mama's face and laughter dances in her hazel eyes as she
gathers fireflies in her hand and shows them to me.

Until I was about five, Mama caught fireflies and put them,
still blinking, into an empty mayonnaise jar. Later, she tucked
me into bed and I pretended those pulsating little bugs were a
nightlight. Sometimes, they seemed to be winking at me. Even
at that young age, I was painfully aware that Mama never once
told me she loved me. It troubled me that she never kissed me
good night, or at any other time for that matter.

But I believed she cared. She just showed it in a unique way – through
humor. I remember her humor being especially poignant as she
battled terminal lung cancer. In 1980, the first inkling my
husband and I had of trouble was the day Mama began experiencing
chest pains. After a few days of pain so severe she had trouble
talking, she let me drive her to the doctor.

Once in the examining room, Mama pulled the white paper gown
over her head as she was instructed. She held the paper out
for my inspection. "I hate these things," she said, a sparkle
of mischief growing in her eyes. "I feel like an overgrown
paper doll." Though deeply concerned, I laughed out loud.
That was Mama.

Later, the X-rays confirmed there was a tumor in her left lung.
I had hoped it wasn't malignant, but after a biopsy the results
came back positive. The doctor gave her a year to live. During
that year, Mama battled the cancer by staying busy. With my
husband's help, she planted a small garden outside her mobile
home on the south side of Atlanta. As soon as the sun blinked upon
the horizon each morning, Mama dragged her three-legged stool
outside and sat among the green beans, tomatoes and cucumbers to
weed the garden, which blossomed with life. After a half hour
in the blazing sun, perspiration beaded her forehead and upper
lip. She'd come in gasping.

Once, with a familiar twinkle in her eyes, she said, "You know,
my breath keeps coming in short pants." Then she laughed. I knew
what she was imagining – puffs of air dressed in a pair of short pants.

In April 1981 Mama lay in a hospital bed, her long battle almost
at an end. One day after radiation therapy, the nurse wheeled
Mama's gurney back into her room.

Although she was a shell of her former self, a smile twinkled
in her hazel eyes. "My mouth is so dry," she said. "I thought
they'd have to shave my tongue." Not only did I laugh out loud
but the nurse smiled as well. Thankfully, Mama's humor made
accepting her illness a little easier.

One day as I left the hospital room I couldn't hold back the tears.
I felt a comforting touch on my shoulder as I neared the nurses'
station. I turned to see a nurse whose eyes showed deep concern.
"Why can't you cry with your mother?" she asked. I shook my head
trying to regain composure. "It's a shame," she went on, "because
every time you leave, your mother cries too."

I wanted so much to let Mama know I cared, but it was impossible
since I'd never received outward affection from her. I simply
didn't know how to show her that I loved her. As an adult with four
children of my own, it was beyond my comprehension how a mother
could not kiss her child or say, "I love you."

As I pondered our lives together, questions
formed in my mind. Why can't I tell my mother that I love her?
Was it because of the betrayal I felt when she left my father?

Perhaps it was Mama's growing alcoholism. Maybe she just couldn't
handle love and was incapable of giving it. I didn't know. I only
knew the words "I love you" never came from her lips and the same
words remained stuck in my throat. I also grieved the fact that I
could not kiss her.

With the rebirth of spring and the resurrection of the once-dormant
azaleas and dogwoods, I found myself thinking of the Easter season
and the sacrifice of God's son over two thousand years before.
Although I was alienated from God during this season of sorrow, I
remember pleading with him, Please help me say good-bye to my
mother before it's too late.

Every day I brought my barely used Bible to Mama's room and curled up
on a vinyl chair partially hidden behind the hospital bed. One
evening when twilight shadows filled the room, I sat in my usual place
silently reading from the Psalms. I don't know who the dark-haired
nurse was who interrupted my thoughts, and she had no idea I was
sitting there in the shadows. I held my breath as she walked up to
Mama. Watching in silence, I saw the nurse gently brush Mama's
chestnut hair from her face. She held Mama's face in her hands in
the most tender way. I knew she must be an angel sent by God because
she did the one thing I couldn't: she leaned down and kissed Mama's
forehead. As I gently exhaled, the woman tiptoed from the room.

The next day doctors were forced to increase the dosage of morphine to
ease Mama's pain. Through the veil of drugs, Mama's eyes glazed and I
feared I had waited too late to say good-bye. Beneath the green
oxygen mask, she struggled for every breath. I struggled with her.
She probably won't hear me, I thought, but I have to tell her.

I picked up my mother's spindly hand and held it. I took a sharp
breath, and for all the times I couldn't speak, I whispered, "Mama, I
love you." For a heartbeat in eternity, Mama's eyes cleared. She
looked at me and a smile traced her lips. The presence of God in that
room was inexplicable. It was as though God himself winked at
me – the way fireflies wink at children on warm, summer nights.

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