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Reading
with My Mother She doesn't act like someone who can't see her own face in the mirror. She has the same light and graceful step, doesn't knock things over, and spills less than I do when she walks with a full mug of coffee into the living room. But I began to notice she was using the telephone a lot more, and when I took a break from my work and came downstairs to read the newspaper, she was much more likely to materialize at my side with the same question. "Is there anything in the newspaper that you think I can't live without knowing!" she would inquire diplomatically. I would read the headlines to her. "No," she'd usually say, "I don't think any of it is crucial." But at night, after supper, it has become a new habit for us to sit in the living room while I read aloud from whatever looks interesting--be it Vanity Fair magazine or Proust. This is the civilized way people used to spend their evenings all the time. Once, when waiting with her in her doctor's office, I started reading aloud a National Geographic story about the birth of a star. Casting a sidelong glance, I saw that her face was rapt with attention. This was someone who used to begin her day with Plato. Now she was depending upon me, the way a baby bird depends upon its parents, to bring her morsels. I thought of a way to feed her more. That was early December. On Christmas Eve, I handed her letters from four different neighbors. The letters announced that they were coming to read to her in the afternoon once a week. My mother was overcome with delight and shyness. "Every week?" she exclaimed. "I don't think anybody should be tied down that way." I explained that it was more convenient for people to know, for sure, when they should come. My mother is a shy and introverted person. She worries she won't know what to say to people, even those she knows quite well, in a social situation. I assured her this wasn't going to be a problem. She wasn't convinced but decided to plow ahead. Slow-talking, quick-witted Magi had signed on for Mondays. My mother selected Plotinus's essay on Beauty for her to read. "I'm not sure, but I think this is the right book for Magi," she said. "She's got such a love of nature." Then, when the doorbell rang, she lost her nerve. "Don't leave me," she whispered as I ushered Magi in. "I won't," I told her, but within minutes I was clearly irrelevant. It had been almost six months since my mother had been able to hear Plotinus speak, and when Magi's soft, gentle voice began to read, my mother's cheeks flushed with excitement. Two hours later they were still happily picking apart the same densely packed paragraph. The reading program was launched. Tuesday, Sandy comes to read from Emerson's essays. "She's a firecracker," said my mother. "I think she'll get along well with Emerson." Wednesday it is Patti's afternoon, for anything--People magazine or poetry. "You can OD on the mystics," said my mother. "I need to stay balanced." And when Dolo comes on Friday, may mother puts Paulo Coelho's The Alchemist--and a bottle of Scotch--on the coffee table. Before my mother lost her vision, she did not have such a steady flow of visitors. It has turned her into a librarian and a hostess--making sure the fire is lit, the tea or Scotch is ready (refreshments are a big part of this reading program), and the book on the table is exactly the one her reader will enjoy. "The Alchemist is definitely the right book for Dolo," declared my mother after she had departed. "She asked a lot of questions." When
I repeated my mother's remark to Dolo later in the week, she chuckled.
"It brings out the teacher in her," she said.
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