Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Changing Places


When I was in first grade, my mother walked me to school. Once I reached the age of seven, she decided that it was safe enough for me to make the half-mile trek all by myself. Many years later Mom confided that letting me go each morning wasn't easy and that for a while she secretly followed me, keeping a discreet distance.

Decades have passed, and Mom is 85 years old, small but sturdy. Deep lines circle her wide smile like the rings of a tree, marking a lifetime of joy, disappointment, and cigarette smoking. Now I'm the one following at a distance, afraid to reveal that I worry about her. When Dad passed away a year ago, Mom insisted on remaining alone in the only house they had ever owned, a three-hour drive away from me. These days I get uneasy if her phone rings a few times too many before she picks up.
Mom doesn't drive long distances anymore, so when I wanted to see her a few weeks ago, I embarked on the six-hour roundtrip to bring her to my home in Columbus, Ohio. On the way back, we traveled south in teeming rain, the world awash in gray that left the barest separation between sky and asphalt. Trucks pelted the passenger window with spray as they blew past us. Mom reflexively hunched toward the center console.

The rain washed out shopping and sight-seeing, so we stayed in, taking pleasure in mother-daughter confidences - about the men we married or didn't, the relatives we'll never figure out, and the parts of our bodies that are too big or too small. With Dad gone, no one is home to hear Mom's sentiments and opinions, to remind her every day how much she is loved, to watch over her. These days, the New York Times crossword puzzle sits on her kitchen table with more empty spaces; she knows world capitals, but Dad knew mountain ranges.

On Mom's last night in Columbus, she sat wrapped in a terrycloth robe that engulfed her five-foot frame. Looking up from her magazine, she announced: "I think I'll just take a bus home tomorrow. Will you look into the Greyhound schedule?"

I looked up, surprised. Mom and Dad never took the bus. Dad liked his Buick too much. I struggled to say something that wouldn't undermine her confidence. "Mom, I'm happy to drive," I told her. "It's no big deal."

My mother's sympathetic smile warned me that she was about to thwart my plan to spend another day together.

"Honey, you've done enough driving already. It's a long, boring trip, especially in the rain." As usual, her consideration for me left little room for argument. (My sister and I imagine that if Mom succumbed to a mortal illness, she would simply leave a note on the back door for us reading, "Died Wednesday. Was buried Saturday. Stopped the mail. Hope you're well. Love, Mom.")

I went upstairs to research Greyhound schedules on the computer. Methodically, I entered the required data, clicked the fare for "1," and paused, realizing that tomorrow would be my mother's first trip alone in 62 years. Then I selected a one-way, no-return ticket. Mom didn't want to be taken care of.

Before going to bed, I tapped the alarm clock until the glowing green numbers blinked 7:00 a.m. I got under the covers and watched the numbers dissolve, one into another, the minutes vanishing. These visits were no longer part of a limitless future together. They came with an expiration date. With a morbid compulsion I couldn't resist, I calculated the number of times I was likely to see Mom again.

"Are you sure about riding the bus?" I asked the next morning. "The roads are dry, it'll be fine to drive." In a last futile attempt to change her mind, I added, "And we'd have three more hours to talk."

Mom rose from the kitchen chair. "No, I've made up my mind," she said, matter-of-factly. "Are you ready to go?" She had donned her coat an hour before, and her suitcase stood at attention by her side. As we drove downtown, I couldn't help admiring her gumption.

I approached the entrance to the Greyhound depot and stepped into a 30-year-old memory. I was a college student again, standing in a dingy bus station in Akron as Mom and Dad hugged and kissed me goodbye before a visit to my sister. As the vision passed, I wanted to turn around and give Mom a hug. I smiled instead; I didn't want to make her look vulnerable in front of strangers. And I knew I would cry.

I held my breath as we walked through the door, fearing that Mom would be overwhelmed by the terminal's dirt and din. But instead of the grimy depot of my memory, I found spotless travertine floors and gleaming white walls.

Mom studied the brightly-lit terminal. "This reminds me of when we used to see you to the Greyhound station," she said.

At last we both smiled.

We took our place in the ticket line. I nudged her suitcase in front of us as we inched along between stanchions threaded with nylon rope.

After twenty minutes, it was our turn. Billfold in hand, Mom approached the agent accepting cash. I tagged her bag and stepped briskly aside.

"Howya' doin', Ma'am?" asked the agent in his best customer service voice. "Your name please?"

"What?" Mom cocked her head to one side and leaned closer to the counter that came nearly up to her collarbone.

I glanced behind us. The bus would depart in a few minutes and the line had grown deep; I fought the urge to interpose. The agent repeated his question with practiced, exaggerated solicitude. All he saw, I suppose, was gray hair, stooped shoulders. I thrust Mom's suitcase toward him and brought it down with a thud onto the baggage scale.

Mom straightened her head, raised her chin, and spelled out her name.

We joined the queue in front of Gate 6, Mom clutching her handbag and ticket close to her chest as if someone might snatch them. A voice that sounded as if it had been recorded through a down duvet announced the next departure.

"I can't hear that," she said, slightly exasperated. "That's why we quit flying. We were afraid were we going to miss something important."

For the fourth time, I reviewed the route printed on her schedule. The bus's final destination was Buffalo, New York; I warned her not to fall asleep or she'd end up in the Niagara River.

A middle-aged man in front of us turned and smiled. He must have heard the concern in my voice, the eagerness for everything to go smoothly. "I'm stopping in Akron myself. Don't worry, I'll make sure she gets off there," he said gently. With relief, I thanked him.

The queue of passengers had just begun boarding when a policeman maneuvered in front of us.

"You ladies, please step away from the bus," he commanded. "I have to remove a passenger, and there may be an altercation."

I barely had time to imagine a battle between good guy and bad guy, with Mom serving as the backstop for a bullet, when the passenger emerged, glassy-eyed, weaving his way down the steps. In one hand he carried a bottle in a brown bag, the paper bunched under his fist.

I exchanged looks with a man in his 20s, standing in line behind my mother, but couldn't tell if his expression meant "Don't worry, this sort of thing rarely happens," or "Fasten your seatbelt, the fun is just beginning."

Mom must have seen the drunk too, but neither of us said a word. I quickly scrutinized the waiting travelers, looking for assurances that my mother would be safe for the next three hours. I kissed Mom quickly as she moved forward in the wave of passengers. She boarded, and through the tinted glass I saw her shadow take a window seat.

With Mom's features obscured, I could only guess what she was thinking. Was my presence embarrassing her? As I hovered outside the gate waiting for the bus to back away, I wondered if I should have watched from inside the terminal.

Mom's vinyl suitcase flew from a worker's hand into the cavity of the luggage bay. The bus driver checked his mirrors and shifted into reverse. With a burst of diesel fumes, the vehicle pulled out and stopped, waiting to merge into traffic.

Compelled to keep Mom in sight, I hurried to get in my car before the driver sped away. When the road cleared, the bus entered Third Street heading toward Interstate 71. I followed it around the block. Hanging back a discreet distance, I watched as her bus turned north and disappeared from view.

Linda Siefkas owns a public relations practice. She shares her life with her husband and friends in Columbus, Ohio. “Changing Places” is her first work of creative non-fiction. Share your thoughts at lindaATsiefkasprDOTcom

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Linda...thanks so much for sharing this powerful personal portrait of your relationship with you's especially meaningful in its proximity to Mother's Day celebrations. I've always known you to be exceedingly articulate...both in your spoken and written communications...but I was not aware of your gift for creatively expressing life experiences. Your message touched me deeply, as I continue my own journey with my mom's life in Columbus at First Community's Alzheimer's Unit, since my dad passed away three years ago. Different circumstances...same theme...of acknowleging the twists and turns of our relationships with our parents and the realities we face with the reversal of roles with our care for them. I've always wanted to take a stab at writing like's been a personal passion of mine for some time. You've given me a glimpse of how I might take that next step in making that happen...on a subject that is near and dear to me. Thanks for that unintended Mother's Day gift! all my best... Margie P.
I was in the class at Thurber House last year that you attended as well I remember that you were working on this peice. Congrat's on being published. Very well written. Linda Hutchison
Beautifully written and very heartwarming! It hits close to home!
Linda, Beautiful! And punctuated with a gentle humor that had me smiling and a couple of time laughing out loud. Thank you for being generous with detail and internal thoughts that made the story not only yours but my own. Keep on writing! Pat
I was getting shaking and tears pooled while reading this piece. I am amazed that Linda knew sharing this experience through writing would be powerful and valuable for others to hear about. Thanks Pat for forwarding it to me. Thanks Linda for sharing your heartache.
Linda, it was a pleasure to read your thoughtfully-written account of the role switching that you experienced in "sending off" your mother to Akron. I could resonate with the complexity of your emotions, ranging from your reluctance to subject your mother to the bus trip home to your mindful acceptance of her needs for autonomy and self-determination in controlling her destiny. Many times I have also struggled with my contrasting desires for independence and human connection, especially from and to a maternal figure who is attuned to my psychological neediness. Thank you for bringing these complex feelings to the forefront in your beautiful portrayal of the inherent struggles faced by mothers and daughters alike. This is a winner!! Marty Johnson
Linda, I loved reading this piece. Good for your mom for getting on that bus and for you for letting her be an independent grown up. As a person who rides Greyhound often, your account is spot on. It's a mixed bag, that's for sure.
Linda, Ditto the other comments on your beautiful account of "tables turned." I also was touched by your portrayal of a mother-daughter relationship still filled with meaningful conversation, humor, abundant love and mutual respect.
What a beautifully written piece on a precious time shared with your mother, Linda. It was very moving to me, as we just celebrated Mother's Day with my dear mother, age 86. You captured so well the love, appreciation, respect, and concern I have for my mom at this bittersweet time in our lives.
I really enjoyed reading this piece Linda. I especially liked the comment about your mom knowing world capitals and your dad knowing mountain ranges. It allows your readers palpable insight into your parents marriage and made me feel as if I knew them. And I can't help but wonder...did she make it home ok? Please tell me, I'm worried!
Linda, What a touching account of your mother's asserting herself and maintaining her independence. She is very lucky to have a daughter like you who allows her the freedom to be who she still is. Jason referred me to your writing and I'm glad he did. Good luck with your future work.
An elegant, subtle piece that gently resonates with emotion. Linda captures the respectful dance between mother and daughter as time quietly forces them to change places. Beautifully done.
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