I'd set my timer for an hour. It’s an old mechanical windup timer, the only type I can use. Smartphones and things like the I-watch aren't items I can use. Electronics don't get along with me. I can't wear a digital watch. In an hour, anything with a microcircuit gets fried. My mom is the same way to a lesser degree. She fries watches, microchipped or mechanical. If she wears them, they’re history. My sister missed out on that genetic gift. I don't know about my father; he died in the trenches during WW2 or was it WW1 trench warfare was prevalent in? I don't remember; history was never my strong suit, and it was a saying of mom's for dad doing his job as a soldier, not that he died in a trench. In any event, I don't recall him.

Every so often mom would go into her closet and take down this old shoe box. Inside were a pair of red leather pumps. I never observed her wearing them. She would get this secret little smile on her face, close the box and replace it. When I was in my teens, I asked her about the shoes, why she never wore the red shoes. It wasn't like they were high, only a one-inch heel, but she never wore them.

"One day I’ll tell you." She’d said, but she never got the chance or took the time; I don't know which. These reminiscences are floating through my brain as I throw things into the suitcase.

My sister called yesterday and left me a message; it was all she could do, no smartphones to make communicating with me convenient. Mom had suffered a stroke and was in the hospital. The doctors didn't know how much longer she has; it had been a massive stroke. They weren't releasing her, and there wasn't anything more that could be done for her. The call had come in when I was flying to New York for a concert. I’m considered a musical prodigy, but I can't read music, and I never try to. I guess I was four or five when my ability was discovered. Someone had deposited me in front of a piano to keep me out-of-the-way. It was some significant family function or something, I didn't know and don't remember. It never mattered enough to me to capture the details and fix them in my mind. The thing is, the piano was open, so I assume my curiosity was what caused me to hit the keys. I wish I could remember that moment, but like so many things, it's forgotten in the fog of time. Perhaps when I'm on my deathbed, I'll remember. I've gathered people do that when they get elderly, they regress. The timer goes off; I shut the case and head out the door. An airport shuttle is pulling up my drive as I exit my modest home.

The trip to the airport compels me further down memory lane. I'm going back to the little town in Timbuktu Texas, where I grew up; how I'd come to hate that place. The only thing I was ever good at was performing music, and it was a petroleum town; it didn't need or want my music. I can play anything I hear, and I can play things I had never heard. When I touch the piano, the music emerges on its own; I play in a trance, sometimes for hours on end, sometimes only a few minutes. My concerts are always entertaining. They announce I'm a prodigy, and they can't say what I will play, or for how long. To date, I had been fortunate; the concerts have lasted two hours on average. Sometimes significantly more, but never less. I don't know if I could make myself play more if I sat down and only one song came out, never explored the theory.

I get a recording of each of my performances. The tape of last night’s concert is secure in my suitcase. Mom always looks forward to the recordings I send her. I hope the plane will get me to her before it is too late. I had only allowed myself that one hour from receiving the news to exiting my house to make it to my mom's hospital bed in as little time as could be managed. I’m not looking forward to going back to Podunk Texas, but I am looking forward to seeing my mom, even if she can’t communicate with me... She has experienced such a vibrant life. For me, the town was too isolated, but she had always supported my choices. In some ways, it's a wonder she has made it this long. Mom's in her mid-nineties. I can't imagine living in an oil drilling, and refining town has been beneficial to her health. I have tried getting her to move somewhere cleaner, but she won't hear of it. Mom would say that she had been there before the oil companies had moved in, and she wasn't about to leave the home dad had made for her because of them, anytime I brought the subject up. During the prior year, she was always coughing when I talked to her on the phone. My sister had moved back in to assist her. Mom didn't need a nursing home, but some help was warranted. I hadn't been consulted or even asked about any of it.

I had flown back home right after the concert. It was around dawn or thereabouts when I got in; I had flopped on the bed and slept. I hadn't seen the message machine blinking its little red light at me. That happened this morning when I was making coffee. One of my neighbors decided that taking down a tree at six a.m. was a sensible action. Sleeping through the constant bur of the chainsaw wasn't something I could do.

That kind of call revives you fast, like a bucket of ice water getting dumped on you. I must have dozed off, our touchdown’s bump jostles me awake. I had told my sister not to pick me up; I would get a cab, I didn't want her to take time away from mom to come and collect me. Women tend to die when no one is close by. Men don't care, but women like their privacy. I use the pay phone to inform her I have landed and am on my way. She says to go to the house. Mom had passed while I was mid-flight. She is wrapping up the paperwork; the funeral home has already collected my mother's body. I’m frozen. I haven't made it in time.

I don't know what happened after that; I get little flashes of the house, my sister, mom’s things, lying on her bed with my sister crying, but I don't remember any of these things. I was in shock, closed off, vacant. A twin of me came in and hauled my body through the daily routine while I was somewhere else, numb. I come back when I am at mom's grave. They are lowering the coffin into the ground. I stand with my sister looking at my mom’s casket descending into this gaping hole. I’m not in shock anymore; this is the harsh undeniable reality. My mother is dead. There wouldn't be any more phone calls or visits, no more tapes to mail her, no more letters to read.

I don't know if it was a beautiful service or not. I retain no memory of it; despite having sat through it. I endure this overwhelming sense of loss; watching mom's coffin as it descends into the ground. I’m standing there, with my sister, a long time after everyone has left. Then, the rain starts and my ever-practical sister wants to haul me away.

"Wait a bit," I say; this is Texas, and rain here is something special.

By the time the rain has drenched me, I realize I’m not numb anymore. I guess it assisted my sister too. We look at each other and smiled a bit and then start laughing. It feels so pleasurable to be standing in the rain, laughing with my sister. Mom used to say let the rain wash our troubles away, and it’s one thing we both have kept of her advice. It’s the best either of us has felt in a long time; since before mom’s coughing started.

I could swear I hear mom say, "That's my girls." Just the way she used to when we were growing up; when we had done something that made her smile or chuckle; when we did something together that made her happy. My sister must have heard it too; she looks startled, as I suppose I do. We both grin, and in unison say, "Now and always mom." The rain lessens to a light drizzle; arm in arm we walk back to the car. It will be alright. We will miss mom and grieve her. Undoubtedly, we will cry more, but we are okay. I can't help thinking mom sent that rain to assist us to move forward.