“Dark, not light!â€
“Mom’s last words,†Vale thought, sitting at her dying mother’s bedside. She’d been delirious for days, in and out of a coma. There had been many close calls during her week in the hospital, but this was surely it. Feeding tubes were out, transfusions stopped, ventilators removed.
“Vale?!!â€
“Yes, Mother, I’m here! I’m here…†She tried to control her voice, remembering the nurses’ admonition to remain as calm as possible in this moment.
“It won’t be the same, Vale…†her voice trailed off.
“I know, I know, Mother. You’re safe. It’s all right.†Vale held her mother’s pallid, wrinkled hand.
“Listen to me. It’s dark!â€
“I won’t leave you.â€
“It’s got to be dark because light brown sugar won’t carmelize right for the icing. Not rich enough. Took me forever to figure that out!â€
Vale pictured herself telling the rest of the family that her mother’s dying words were about cake. The doctors said the meds were confusing her, but her eyes shone bright with clarity.
Though suffering, struggling and letting go of one’s Life, there are some key things that hold fast – in this case – a seemingly small, but important detail that HAD to be passed on to the living: the correct KIND of ingredient that brings forth the magic of a recipe, for example. In great contrast to this passing along of an important “secret”, I am reminded of a secret that wouldn’t be passed on because it would betray something MORE important: the well-guarded secret of the wooded location of a morel patch. As my friend’s mother lay dying, she asked her mother: “WHERE is the morel patch?” But a secret is a secret – the morel patch’s location was not revealed.