When Fireflies Wink It is at twilight that I remember Mama best. I can still see her chasing fireflies, her skirt swinging below her knees. As the fading sun slips behind Georgia pine trees, it leaves the sky blanketed with a sunburst of orange. A glow radiates from Mama's face and laughter dances in her hazel eyes as she gathers fireflies in her hand and shows them to me. Until I was about five, Mama caught fireflies and put them, still blinking, into an empty mayonnaise jar. Later, she tucked me into bed and I pretended those pulsating little bugs were a nightlight. Sometimes, they seemed to be winking at me. Even at that young age, I was painfully aware that Mama never once told me she loved me. It troubled me that she never kissed me good night, or at any other time for that matter. But I believed she cared. She just showed it in a unique way – through humor. I remember her humor being especially poignant as she battled terminal lung cancer. In 1980, the first inkling my husband and I had of trouble was the day Mama began experiencing chest pains. After a few days of pain so severe she had trouble talking, she let me drive her to the doctor. Once in the examining room, Mama pulled the white paper gown over her head as she was instructed. She held the paper out for my inspection. "I hate these things," she said, a sparkle of mischief growing in her eyes. "I feel like an overgrown paper doll." Though deeply concerned, I laughed out loud. That was Mama. Later, the X-rays confirmed there was a tumor in her left lung. I had hoped it wasn't malignant, but after a biopsy the results came back positive. The doctor gave her a year to live. During that year, Mama battled the cancer by staying busy. With my husband's help, she planted a small garden outside her mobile home on the south side of Atlanta. As soon as the sun blinked upon the horizon each morning, Mama dragged her three-legged stool outside and sat among the green beans, tomatoes and cucumbers to weed the garden, which blossomed with life. After a half hour in the blazing sun, perspiration beaded her forehead and upper lip. She'd come in gasping. Once, with a familiar twinkle in her eyes, she said, "You know, my breath keeps coming in short pants." Then she laughed. I knew what she was imagining – puffs of air dressed in a pair of short pants. In April 1981 Mama lay in a hospital bed, her long battle almost at an end. One day after radiation therapy, the nurse wheeled Mama's gurney back into her room. Although she was a shell of her former self, a smile twinkled in her hazel eyes. "My mouth is so dry," she said. "I thought they'd have to shave my tongue." Not only did I laugh out loud but the nurse smiled as well. Thankfully, Mama's humor made accepting her illness a little easier. One day as I left the hospital room I couldn't hold back the tears. I felt a comforting touch on my shoulder as I neared the nurses' station. I turned to see a nurse whose eyes showed deep concern. "Why can't you cry with your mother?" she asked. I shook my head trying to regain composure. "It's a shame," she went on, "because every time you leave, your mother cries too." I wanted so much to let Mama know I cared, but it was impossible since I'd never received outward affection from her. I simply didn't know how to show her that I loved her. As an adult with four children of my own, it was beyond my comprehension how a mother could not kiss her child or say, "I love you." As I pondered our lives together, questions formed in my mind. Why can't I tell my mother that I love her? Was it because of the betrayal I felt when she left my father? Perhaps it was Mama's growing alcoholism. Maybe she just couldn't handle love and was incapable of giving it. I didn't know. I only knew the words "I love you" never came from her lips and the same words remained stuck in my throat. I also grieved the fact that I could not kiss her. With the rebirth of spring and the resurrection of the once-dormant azaleas and dogwoods, I found myself thinking of the Easter season and the sacrifice of God's son over two thousand years before. Although I was alienated from God during this season of sorrow, I remember pleading with him, Please help me say good-bye to my mother before it's too late. Every day I brought my barely used Bible to Mama's room and curled up on a vinyl chair partially hidden behind the hospital bed. One evening when twilight shadows filled the room, I sat in my usual place silently reading from the Psalms. I don't know who the dark-haired nurse was who interrupted my thoughts, and she had no idea I was sitting there in the shadows. I held my breath as she walked up to Mama. Watching in silence, I saw the nurse gently brush Mama's chestnut hair from her face. She held Mama's face in her hands in the most tender way. I knew she must be an angel sent by God because she did the one thing I couldn't: she leaned down and kissed Mama's forehead. As I gently exhaled, the woman tiptoed from the room. The next day doctors were forced to increase the dosage of morphine to ease Mama's pain. Through the veil of drugs, Mama's eyes glazed and I feared I had waited too late to say good-bye. Beneath the green oxygen mask, she struggled for every breath. I struggled with her. She probably won't hear me, I thought, but I have to tell her. I picked up my mother's spindly hand and held it. I took a sharp breath, and for all the times I couldn't speak, I whispered, "Mama, I love you." For a heartbeat in eternity, Mama's eyes cleared. She looked at me and a smile traced her lips. The presence of God in that room was inexplicable. It was as though God himself winked at me – the way fireflies wink at children on warm, summer nights.

By Nanette Thorsen-Snipes Reprinted by permission of Nanette Thorsen-Snipes © 1999, from Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty Aubery and Nancy Mitchell Autio.

-- Anonymous, May 14, 2001