Two Birds

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉ℯ𝓇 𝒪𝓃ℯ

Every story has an end. And every end has a beginning. That's not the case for Noah Delle and Jack Williams. For them, it was only the beginning.

I was sitting on my burgundy rocking chair, waiting for my mother to enter the room for her daily pills and anxiety medicine she's required to take. And forgets nearly every day, yet I feel like she just doesn't want to accept the fact that she's nearly 79 and digging her own grave with every minute she wastes worrying. She tells me and my own children that she's so full of life and energetic emotions, alas her joints would say otherwise.

It's around 9:00 on the nose, and mother should be waking up around right now, and most likely will either question why I'm here again to take care of her, or when my youngest, Billy, is. I loved William Shakespear as a kid, and the name Billy just seemed so appealing for a youngest that I couldn't not pick it.

My mother came into the room, with her usual floral-patterned nightgown and white ballet shoes with socks, along with a pink sweater over it. I swear, she dresses like she's an elder in the 90s. She looks adorable though, I'll give her that.

Every day I feel like our roles are reversed and that I'm a mother to her and she's my child, developing more every day as times go on by. I'm really going to miss her when Jesus signs her petition to live with him, along with my grandpappy. He died about 20 years ago when I was around 16 or 17, from a truck accident on a highway. I'm pretty sure that was nearly the saddest day of my life, if not for my dog dying that same day as well. I looked up at her as I smiled and spoke.

"Hi, mom. How're you feeling?" She looks up at me in confusion and takes a couple seconds, if not minutes, to respond. Her brain is getting old and she's just getting a bit slower and slurred in speech, yet I never trouble her for it.

"We're out of grapes, Jenny.." Mother said with a weak tone as she fixed her position for her glasses to see better. She's about as blind as a bat with her glasses, but she refuses to buy another pair because she doesn't want to waste money on something that won't stay around longer.

"No, I'm Laura, your daughter. Jenny is your granddaughter."

"Who am I..?"

We aren't even out of grapes, she just doesn't remember where the refrigerator is in her own house. Her brain is starting to die down on her, literally, and it's getting to the point where she cannot even remember my identity at certain points. I understand she's getting older and isn't as sharp as she used to be, yet it still concerns me.

"Laura..? Where's Jack.."

"Jack isn't here, mom. He's not coming back, and you know that."

She then went silent as she sat in her own chair across from me, looking like she saw a ghost and I noticed she started to silently cry. Why, why, why. Why am I so stupid and forgetful when it comes to my mother's sensitive brain?! I went over to her and crouched by her on one knee, soothing her back nerves with my hand gently rubbing up and down, concerning enough that I could feel her spine through the sweater and thick-fabricated nightgown on the palm of my hand.

"Mom, calm down. Jack is gone, okay? He is."

"No, no he's not.."

I sigh to myself as I shake my head and stand up, looking down at her as she rocked back and forth, muttering to herself "he isn't gone, he isn't gone" over and over non-stop like she was a distorted robot in need of re-wiring. I've been trying really hard to get her to move into, like, an actual nursing home. But all of the ones by us are either trashy or their employees aren't paid enough to care. Looking into her pale blue eyes slowly dying down on her, I walk over to a stack of letters. They all were directed to mother, with either them coming from the names Jack or Matthew on them.

She was known to be like a Miss America back when she was younger, at least that's what she said when she could remember better. Sometimes I just want to give her own grave and shove her rotting old body down in it so it would hurt less. Dark, I know. But it's what I think, if I'm being honest and not lying. She kept pictures of herself and she did look beautiful when she was younger, but that was the 60's pinpoint of beauty. Barbies, Marilyn Monroe, Jack Nicholson, it all depended on the smile mainly and that was an attractive trait. And mama certainly had a smile, like Judy Garland.

She looked over at me and then spoke in a panicky voice, as her breath hitched like she'd seen a ghost.

"No.. No.. No!"

Crap. I hit a nerve. I quickly put the letters in her drawer and closed it shut, walking over to her and rubbing her back while she tried pushing away. Another attack, yet this seems a bit much. I shushed her soothingly, rubbing her back and shoulders to calm her down while she took deep breaths. I feel better now. I crouched down to her level, looking at her as she caught her breath, slowing down in her brain again. I looked at the drawer, then back at her.

"..Do you want to hear a story?"

She looks up at me, and nods slowly and subtly, enough for me to notice as I go over to the windows and dim them with the curtains. Lighting a candle and filling the room with lavender scent, she gets deja vu. Or that's what her reaction tells me. I smile while sitting across from her again, and clearing my voice to at least be thankful to have a couple minutes of peace and calm storytime with her.

"60 years ago, in a small town near Baltimore, there was a governing family.."

"..And two soon-to-be hopeless lovers."