To the gypsy that remains

About a week before Mom was rushed back to the hospital for what would be the last time, Diane and I blessed her with a beautiful rendition of Stevie Nick’s Gypsy, complete with trilly vocals and dramatic whirly birding.  We were at Brelle’s house then, and preparing Mom for bed when we were pulled in by the wonders of Stevie Nick’s artistry.  With one impromptu lyric, we had been transformed to another world, a world without medical beds and wheelchairs, brain cancer and bathroom changes.  We were in the velvet underground, back to the floor that old Stevie loved (or whatever she says).  We had become our own sort of gypsies:  people that faced freedom with a little fear, but had no fear….only love.  And when we hit the chorus “And if I was a child, and the child was enough, enough for me to love, enough to love,” we mumbled that sucker as if the words were too powerful for us to understand.  (Seriously, I always thought she was saying that the child was a dove, which, at the time, didn’t make sense, but with Stevie, I never really questioned it.) 

With that kind of transformative power, we had but one outlet and that was to dance, dance (a little shout out to Don Henley).  Though I’m sure Mom had no clue what we were singing, she eagerly looked on as we purposely poked fun at what was a hit from her era (sort of), and all for a laugh.  She was so obliging.  No matter how silly the circumstances, she always looked on with an interesting sense of pride and absolute confusion.  She thrived on the quirky and ridiculous, and in that way, allowed us to be young at heart and spontaneous without feeling embarrassed or immature.  Her laughter only fueled the flame.  She not only knew when we were joking, she bought into it and even participated when she could. 

Now, as I listen to Stevie belt that familiar tune, I can’t help but recall that evening with Mom, when the lyrical arrangement of our words and the unity of our voices had her spellbound.  I miss our performances.  It's hard to find the inspiration now that we're sans our captive (literally) audience. 

I miss you, Mom.  -- J

“She is (prancing) away from me now... She was just a (witch), she was just a (witch).  And (her) memory is all that is left for (us) now … “