[identity profile] dedra.livejournal.com posting in [community profile] tamingthemuse
Title: The Last Laugh
Author: [livejournal.com profile] spikespetslayer
Rating: G
Fandom: None
Pairing: None
Warnings: well, you may want to have some Kleenex on hand if you're so inclined...



The Last Laugh

The first thing that I saw when I came home was her purse.

It sat innocuously on the table like it waited for her to come along and pick it up. Waiting for another journey that would never be; another adventure that would never happen. Hard to go anywhere when you’ve been buried under six feet of clay soil and your grave watered with tears.

It sat there, innocent of all the heartache that had passed in the last eighteen days. Unknowingly, it made my heart ache worse than it had an hour before. It was the last visible sign of her, the ghost that would not be exorcised with a religious rite. This was an exorcism that I had to do myself with my own hands if I wanted to ever be whole again.

I grabbed it with both hands and waited for lightning to strike. If anything, her purse was something that wasn’t messed with at any time. If we wanted something that was in it, we brought it to her and she got it out for us. It was her last bastion of privacy.

My fingers fumbled with the zipper, drawing it open across the top and letting the contents expose themselves. Looking into the black interior, I spotted a bottle of her perfume with the ever-familiar swan embossed on the side of the bottle. The animal mocked me, I swear; I saw the look of amusement on its face as I took it out and set it aside.

In the bottom of the bag was the assorted detritus that daily life leaves behind. A couple open packs of gum with one or two sticks missing from each; pens, scraps of paper, some loose change scattered among lint and pieces of loose tobacco from cigarettes long absent. I scooped all of it out and tossed it on the table next to the perfume.

Black, dark and foreboding, I take the wallet out last. Her wallet. She guarded it with a fierce passion, secrets hidden inside that she didn’t want left out to prying eyes or nosy parkers who had no business looking in it.

I opened it with shaky fingers, the snap loud in the silence of the room.

It fell open gracefully under my touch to the center divider that held pictures and business cards. Senior pictures, one my own, stare me in the face; folded snapshots open to show family gatherings and good times that were as far away from now as the moon was from Earth.

There’s a large bump under the flap and I pull out the hidden objects, searching for clues. Clues as to what gave her the sense of internal peace, hidden laughter, and humor at everything good and bad that life had tossed her way. What I found was not what I expected, but it was understandable after I looked at them.

They were comics. Sunday comics, daily comics, cut from newspapers and folded carefully for her later perusal. Cherished, from what I could tell from the ragged folds, like they had been opened and looked over many times in the last few years. There was a Peanuts comic that talked about the meaning of Thanksgiving with Woodstock giving Snoopy the boot in the last frame. This one was smudged, as if it had been looked at many times since it had been put into the wallet.

There was a Garfield in there, as well as several Family Circus comics. My breath caught in my throat and came out as a sob when I saw the largest Family Circus. It was worn, the colors smeared with age and refolding, but I could clearly read the words and I knew what she thought as she looked at it.

In the caricature, the family was gathered around a table for an evening meal. A ghostly white grandfather figure hovered overhead looking down on the family, love clear on the old and wrinkled face. One of the children was asking his grandmother if grandpa could see them now and she replied that she wouldn’t be surprised.

It was then and only then that I was able to let go of the tears that I had held back for so long. For the entire time since her heart attack, her coma, her stay in the Intensive Care Unit and finally her death, I had held myself stiff and stoic, refusing to let anyone see me dying that little death of my own. Holding this comic strip in my hand, I finally let myself believe that my mother would never come home and I was alone.

The pain hit my gut and knifed into my heart. I cried until I couldn’t breath, until the roof of my mouth swelled and the snot blocked my nose and I had pain in my chest as the air stopped moving. Gasping, I fell off the chair and onto the floor, choking and grabbing at my throat until I slowly fell into the eternal dark.

I woke a few minutes later, able to breathe easily after the panic attack had subsided with consciousness. The comic strip was still clutched in my hand with new wrinkles down one side and I looked at it with new eyes and the inescapable feeling that someone was watching over me as well.

With new reverence, I replaced her things back into their hiding places. Pictures, comics, perfume and gum, all tucked back into that handbag that had been both my epiphany and my undoing. When I was done, I put it in my cedar chest, the one that held all my memories and precious things. I would never stop missing her, this I knew; but in keeping this part of her intact she would always be with me.

There are times when life has overwhelmed me and I feel I need my mother’s wisdom; those are the times that I take her purse out of its protected spot and review those comics. I’m certain now that it was exactly the same thing that she did, to remind herself that there are more things to laugh about in life than to cry about.

It’s those times that I feel closest to her and miss her more than I can ever say.



A/N: You will never know how visceral this piece was for me...but it was cathartic too, in its own way. This is a true story.


Disclaimers: Garfield is a registered trademark of Jim Davis; Family Circus is a registered trademark of Bil Keane; Peanuts is a registered trademark of Charles M. Schultz. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made from the use of these characters.

Date: 2006-11-27 08:44 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile] lilithbint.livejournal.com
Oh the last paragraph and sentence were heartwrenching and beautiful.
thank you for sharing this with us.

Date: 2006-11-27 01:23 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] authoressnebula.livejournal.com
Yup, definitely needed the Kleenex. *sniffles* That was good. That was very good.

*hugs*

~Nebula

Date: 2006-11-30 05:52 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] thismaz.livejournal.com
Thank you.

Date: 2006-11-30 06:30 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sparrow2000.livejournal.com
That was beautiful and very, very brave. I did something similar a few weeks ago with the Father's Day prompt and I cried buckets afterwards but felt lighter at the end of it.

Thank you so much for sharing. I'll be thinking about this for a long time

hugs
s xx

Date: 2006-12-02 03:32 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] sunnyd-lite.livejournal.com
In the bottom of the bag was the assorted detritus that daily life leaves behind. A couple open packs of gum with one or two sticks missing from each; pens, scraps of paper, some loose change scattered among lint and pieces of loose tobacco from cigarettes long absent. lovely description

A ghostly white grandfather figure hovered overhead looking down on the family, love clear on the old and wrinkled face.

Powerful piece
Page generated Jun. 9th, 2025 07:11 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios