Within Arm's Reach

by Ann Napolitano

No one in my mother’s family ever talks about anything that can be categorized as unpleasant or having to do with emotions, and, as a result, they no longer have anything to say.

For them it’s not a matter of keeping secrets; it’s a matter of being polite, mannerly, and tough. The McLaughlins couldn’t spill their woes or ask for help even if they wanted to, because they don’t have the vocabulary. They are stranded within themselves, convinced that the only way is to silently persevere.

I’m not sure any child really wants to know their parent, or vice versa. Maybe that knowledge and that truth are too much. I’m not sure. These are new thoughts for me, and I need to find a way through them. I am not accustomed to having new thoughts, and at seventy-nine am not at all thrilled to have to learn.

No one ever tells you, when you are young, that your entire personality can change—will change—as you grow older.

I do feel badly. I have busted up the game my family has been playing since Lila and I hit puberty. In the game, Lila and I are polite, well-educated, achieving daughters who love and respect their parents. In exchange for presenting this front, and going to college and meeting other expected life landmarks, we have been permitted to keep our personal lives completely private.

My mother never really wanted to know me, she just saw the daughter she wanted to see.

An old woman’s body is one of loss. Loss of sensuality and suppleness, loss of muscle and bone mass, loss of color. Everything is fading away. You can catch glimpses of the woman who was once there, but no more.