Sour Dough Bread
Once upon a quiet summers evening - the car drops me at the glass doors with the tinkling chimes.
I carry freshly plucked Marguerite daisies from the furze yellow hedges around the ridged chocolate fields. There is also ice-cream wrapped in a deli-foil bag to keep it cool so I open the door to my Mother’s room with my chin.
A pretty blonde woman in a blue tabard is kneeling on the floor,
both of my Mother’s hands in hers,
craning upwards to see the face under the flopping fringe.
- Kin you tell me if there is anythink I can do for you?
She speaks with an accent that as a race we have become familiar with,
although one is never sure if it is Croatian, Serbian, Polish, or Lithuanian.
I am at pains to mark my territory,
and inform this stranger that my Mother does not,
I throw the flowers onto the patchwork quilt and make a production about getting a vase, a saucer and spoon.
How very dare she - I wonder
and stalk up the miles of carpeted hallway
saluting and calling into the various open doors at the residents beyond.
It is like a nursery for forgotten dolls.
Some lie sideways in railed beds with bolsters at their backs.
Some sit sideways in wheelchairs staring out the window or at the Rte Soaps,
all 50 rooms simultaneously playing the opening theme of Eastenders.
DOOM doom de de deh de de
A drumkit falling down a stairs.
Surely a carer should know that someone with late stage Alzheimers cannot speak - I think,
as I pull the huge green crystal vase out from the very back of the hairdressing press,
where it has been shoved away behind the rollers and the hairsprays as it is too massive to balance on a window ledge.
I am nothing if not controversial.
I fill it with icy water in the double sink of the hospitality room,
where brown bread and scones and cheese and ham,
are laid out with a checkered cloth over them,
when a family are waiting for a death.
I know this as I have been coming here for years.
I also know the bed gets pulled out from the wall to make space for people to get in at the doll.
On the way back to my Mothers room I hear her soft Eastern European voice in a soothing sequence of rhetorical questions.
-Dass ZO mush bitter now eh? she whispers as I walk back in the room and see she is massaging my Mothers temples.
The small blonde woman and the smaller woman in the big chair have connected on a deeper level than language.
I recognise the movements of Reiki and Shiatsu
and the gentle way she has of rubbing the scalp,
the tension in the cords at the base of the bent neck,
released under her loving touch.
Her name badge says Anna.
We talk for 20 minutes about care of the elderly,
about connection and family,
about holistic treatments, movement and manipulation,
about people and place,
about love and language and loss.
I thought she would be the type of woman I would like to go drinking with.
Or call friend.
I never saw her again.
On the last day of Winter, the brown bread and scones, the cheese and ham, were laid out under the checkered cloth for Us.
The bed was pulled out from the wall for Us.
And the Banshee gale that had been shrieking for 4 days around the long house nestled in the frosty fields, blew my Mother out of the massive chair,
and carried her off in a gentle breeze, and it grew calmer,
then silent and a full moon rose in a lilac sky.
Last week I went shopping, trying to coerce and convince myself to engage, to re-stock the empty kitchen, to tempt myself with something delicious.
I want sour dough bread - toasted - with cold butter.
Or maybe a beautiful mini pot of strawberry jam.
I wander the aisles of the over bright supermarket listening to the tannoy paging staff ,
customer service and the tinny muzak of the advertising jingles.
I have almost forgotten what I have come in for about ten times and there is a wealth of nonsensical fruit that will be trashed when it softens and washing powder bulging out of my basket.
Twice, I walked the length of the bread aisle, feeling only that I had no top layer of skin on, and that if anyone looked at my black ringed eyes they would think I was insane.
I hope I’m not on CCTV and there is not a security man watching holding his sides.
I throw caution to the wind and head down the bread lane for a third time.
Fuck the begrudgers.
There is brown and white bread.
There is real white and half white and half brown and half white mixed together.
There is low fat, gluten free, handmade, homemade,
There is bread that costs a King’s Ransom and bread that is so cheap for a large sliced it is probably made from re-cycled rubber .
There is bread with nuts in it, and seeds on it, there are rolls and Ciabatta and Panini, there are French sticks, and Tiger breads, cobs, turnovers, barrel pans, soup rolls, salad rolls, crispbreads and croutons.
There is not a screed of a sour dough loaf.
I look around for some help and see the Deli Assistant loosely plopping egg mayonnaise into the salad bar with a giant spoon.
“Whose leg do you have to hump to find the sour dough bread around here?” I ask the back of her.
She turns and smiles in recognition.
- Oh, Halloooooo she says brightly
I smile quickly but am more concerned with the business at hand,
namely finding the curse of Jasus bread and ultimately leaving the supermarket as fast as my small aching legs can carry me.
People who read me often know me, although I often cannot return the favour.
I am worn out.
- How is Siobhán? She asks reaching out to touch me on the elbow.
- She died I answer baldly, making no attempt to colour the statement as this is not the first, and assuredly not the last time that someone will enquire how my Mother is.
She looks off into the middle distance and squints and I notice her blinking, and then the tears that quickly form in her pretty blue eyed face.
- Oh Gott, I’m zo surry
And I wonder at her reaction, the grasp of her hand on mine, and take a moment to scan the supermarket badge on her left breast.
Her name badge says Anna.
MDM May 19th 2015