A Statue in Elm Park

I learned to stop asking questions about life and death after a sharp grimace from grandma. I had just asked if mom was dead. It was only a whisper, a sincere moment of piecing things together. She had never looked at me that way before, like I was offending the Lord Jesus himself. I had disrespected something. Worse, I was wrong. Of course mom wasn’t dead. That’s why we drove out to Elm Park every other weekend to see her. That’s why we were here, seated at the edge of a stone statue, beautiful and young, feeding breadcrumbs to birds.

It seemed normal to me, having a statue in Elm Park as a mother. It’s all I had ever known. When I explained it to my friends at school, they thought I was lying. I lied about a lot of things, but this wasn’t one of them. My teachers understood, at least. Or pretended to understand. “The one at Elm Park?” they might ask. I’d nod. “I’ve been there. Beautiful place, especially when the chestnut trees bloom. I’m sure your mother is comfortable.”

Grandma would take us—my dad, and sometimes my aunts and older cousins—rain or shine, all packed into her brown-and-cream Camry. Dad and grandma would spend most of the time at mom’s bare feet, talking to each other, stiff smiles, passing photos like gossip. Grandma wore her church perfume on top of sun lotion. The stench of it! She smelled like flower rubber. She’d try to rub the sunblock on my forehead and I’d wiggle in disgust. Then she’d laugh and tap the fleshy folds around her cheeks as if to say, “here’s what you’ll look like!”

I wasn’t worried about wrinkles, though. Mom didn’t have wrinkles. And they said I looked a lot like her. The resemblance was uncanny, they’d say, as if cans had anything to do with it. I worried about mom’s gray, hard skin. Sometimes I stroked her cold arms when no one was paying attention. They were never clean. City pollution, dust, rain, mud. Sometimes her arms were streaked with white and brown pigeon poop. I’d dip my fingers in a puddle and pet the marks off of her forearm, eggy paste oiling up my fingerprints. Then I’d rub the grime off in the grass and go play with my cousins.

Mom never said a word. She was a stone statue—real granite or cement or marble, I never knew. I didn’t ask. I just worried it’d happen to me. All throughout high school I was the sole member of the Hypochondriac Club. I’d worry over every stiff joint, every patch of dry skin, every rough elbow. When I first got dandruff, that was it. I knew I was done for. I ran to grandma’s house, halfway across town, full speed. I ran and ran, completely out of breath, crying into her arms. “I’m turning into stone,” I said. “I’m turning into mom!”

She pulled leftover chicken and gravy noodles from the fridge and stroked my hair as it heated up in the microwave. I remember biting into the greasy chicken leg through tears, through snot. Somehow the soft flesh soothed me. I wanted to be like this chicken, soft and warm and moist, able to be pierced by teeth.

In my early twenties, after I went off to state university, mom passed away. It was a strange thing to hear. I didn’t know rock could die. I thought there was only one thing good about being the daughter of a statue in Elm Park, and that was knowing your mom would always be there, youthful—silent but steadfast. I couldn’t tell the difference. No new feelings arose. The strangest part was, nothing needed to be done, really. They just moved her out to the cemetery, like rubble returning to a quarry.

I visit her out there, too. I bring little flowers and a tin of candies, not sure of the ritual. Grandma and dad and my aunts and older cousins also come sometimes, but not as much. I guess it’s different for them somehow. They liked visiting her in the park, but in the cemetary she’s just another stone.

------------

Sources:

• Image: Lannie "Merlandese" Neely III