The Moon Follows Me

I can't take this anymore!

I pedal my bicycle hard, rushing down the night road.
I haven't even prepared dinner yet.
I have a life of my own, too!

I reach the intersection and
screech
to a halt.
There is no traffic light.

Watching a few cars pass by, I look back at the road I came from.
It's the direction of my parents' house.

My mother's care needs came on suddenly.
I visit every day.
Is it a good thing or a bad thing that I live close enough to visit?
Am I a cold-hearted daughter?
My father is also getting on in years, but he's doing his best.
However, I have to be considerate of his health, his quirks, and his feelings, so it's twice or three times as exhausting.

I can't take this anymore!

My mother doesn't even smile when I visit. When I'm slow helping her to the toilet, she tells me to hurry up.
I can't take it.

But.

Even though she has some dementia, there's the frustration of not being able to move her body well, and the embarrassment of having to expose her backside.
Maybe she feels those things too.

I'm sorry.

I mutter to myself again, as if to take back the words I spat out earlier.

As I look back, I glance up and see the moon wearing a halo.

It's going to rain tomorrow, too.

I sigh, thinking that days like this will probably continue for a while, and start pedaling my bike forward again.
This time, I slow down a little.

It won't just be for a while.
It will continue forever, and it will become my daily life.
In the first place, I will eventually grow old myself.
Will my daughter, my only daughter, feel the same way about an old me?
I don't want her to think, 'I can't take this!' and I don't want to make her feel that way.
I don't want to live a long life.

I turn left at the next corner.
Just before I turn, I look up to the left one more time.
The moon is still watching me.
The distance hasn't changed from before.

The moon is following me.

The day my mother finally returned home from the hospital and care facility, the first thing she did was look at the electronic piano and smile, asking, 'Shall I try playing it?'
I haven't seen my mother smile since she broke her bone and was hospitalized.
No, even before she was hospitalized, I feel like she hadn't smiled for a very long time.
It was a cute, childlike smile.
She really does love to play.
Unfortunately, she can't use her right hand, but while sitting in her wheelchair, she played skillfully with just her left hand. It even made me happy.
Since that day, the electronic piano has been covered with a cloth again.

I could see the lights of my house.
I screeched my bike to a halt and put the kickstand down with a grunt.

Wait, now the moon is on my right.
It’s still wearing a faint halo, watching me.
It almost looks like it’s smiling a little.

Huh?

What is it?
Have you been watching me the whole time?
Could you hear me talking to myself, too?

After my daughter was born, my mother became 'Grandma,' and my father became 'Grandpa.'
It wasn't just the names.

My mother gradually stopped doing housework and didn't go out much anymore.
We used to go to cafes together all the time.

When I called her for advice and she snapped, 'I can't hear you!' and hung up on me, I realized my mother was gone.
That must have been about ten years ago.

Even so, I didn't feel particularly grief-stricken, and I still visited my parents' house from time to time.
'Grandpa, I'm here!'
'Grandma, you shouldn't just be sleeping all the time!'

Right now, tired and frustrated, I rode my bike here in a rush, but images of my mother from those times keep flashing in and out of my mind like a slide show.

I remember when I was a rebellious teenager and shouted 'You old hag!' at her, and she just calmly brushed it off while serving me dinner.

In the waiting room on my wedding day, as I was gradually being transformed into a bride, my mother told me, 'You look beautiful!'

After I became pregnant, I went back to my parents' home early.
I had a panic attack in the middle of a prenatal class and called my mother, trembling.
She was nearby, so she rushed over immediately and smiled, saying, 'It’s going to be okay!' Sweat was beading on her forehead.

As far back as I can remember in my childhood, my mother didn't show much emotion, and she never hugged me tight. I don't even have memories of holding her hand.

She was capable and smart, but she wasn't what you'd call a 'tough mother.' She was quiet, almost to the point of being underwhelming.

That such a mother would turn a strong, reassuring smile toward me and say, 'It’s going to be okay!' is a quite surprising and precious memory.

When it was time to give birth, from the night I checked into the hospital until the afternoon of the next day—yes, right up until the moment my daughter let out her first cry—she stayed by my side and rubbed my lower back.

When they told me the next day that my cervix was still only three centimeters dilated, I panicked and screamed at them to just cut me open!

They even prepared anesthesia for a C-section, but in the end, my daughter was born naturally without any issues.
My mother was just as relieved and exhausted as I was. Even though she had gone home to bathe and rest, my blood pressure dropped to a dangerous level and I nearly died, so she came flying back to the hospital.

At that moment, my mother was undoubtedly a 'mother.'

...I'm sorry.

The moon is following me.

No, I suppose we came home together.

I felt as if the moon had said that again.