Trinkets From the Islands

I wanted to share the colors of our vacation with my mother when we returned, to tell her of the rainbows we walked through, the almost indescribable aqua of the Caribbean, the blue of the sky, the contrast of the flags of a street fair against centuries old brick, the black skin of children in crisp blue school uniforms. I memorized details of the cruise ship, its beauty, its size, its elegant pastries, the voice of its Captain, his words thick with Italy as he welcomed us aboard. Memorized them to bring them to her.

In the kiosks that line every port and wait for the exodus of shoppers from the ships, wait for sunburned arms to carry away their trinkets for just the right price, the special price, the price that sounds too good to be true at the moment but in reality, the reality of home and the clash of tropical decor against the backdrop of New England, that price is higher than it was on the island. From different corners of my suitcase I pull plastic bags covered with exotic names and filled with exotic things and sort them on my bed and am pleased once again to have found just the right thing for almost everyone. Just the right piece of the Caribbean to share.

As I walked the narrow streets of the islands, ducked into the shops and looked in the windows what I searched for wasn't there. It didn't exist in the form of a coconut shell, or stuffed iguana, a hand carved tribal mask or hand woven tablecloth. It wasn't there in a miniature bottle of sand, a cake made of rum or jars of spices ground under the ancient stones of the island. No matter how bright the smiles of the shopkeepers, how full their shops were or how the sun warmed my shoulders the piece of my vacation I sought to bring home eluded me and the bags on my bed hold no tropical gift for my mother.

In her room at the Nursing Home yesterday, after being away from her for ten days, I was not greeted with her smile or the brief but present brightness of recognition in her eyes. She didn't ask how our trip was or where we went. She didn't reach for me. She didn't say my name. She didn't know I'd been gone. She didn't know me.

We talked about her rings, she turned them around her fingers and tried to remember where she got them. She looked at mine, reached for them and turned them in the light. She struggled with her heart shaped gold ring, visibly searching for the memory of where it came from, who had given her such a gift. Unable to recall she moved to her engagement and wedding rings and asked me who gave her those. I told her they came from my father. She knew me then, at least I want to believe she did, need to believe she did.

In the airport in New York I bought her some candy. Chocolates in a jar shaped like an apple. She loves chocolate.