Laughter: Warms the Old Cockles
The mundane things that connect us. forever.
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It’s funny, the things that keep us connected. It’s not big things like births, accomplishments or disasters, but the mundane, the every day.
Coney Island is part of my connection to my father—despite the fact we were never there together. Chiller Theater, Errol Flynn and Jimmy Cagney, con games, con men & fortune tellers, small circuses & traveling carnivals and Zoltan, the fortune-telling arcade machine. In 2003, when I learned the man who invented Zoltan died, I lost my footing for a moment, completely disoriented. There was only one other person in my world who’d care, who’d even recognize the name Zoltan. My father’d already been dead for three years, but I needed to make the connection, to complete the circuit somehow; I made my mother listen and act as if she was interested.
I found a mini Zoltar machine that lights up and dispenses wisdom in our building’s communal laundry room. It’s not exactly the same, but it’s close enough. I know a hello from my dad when I see one.
Passing a Shake Shack a few blocks from home, I was hit with that melancholic pang, a momentary confusion, out of step or out of sync—the way I had the day Zoltan’s inventor died. I feel it whenever I drive past a Wendy’s, a small sad tug. When I go into Home Goods, I literally hear her voice, turn an look for the tall redhead—she’s not been tall, nor a redhead in many years.
These are mommy memories. It’s hard to reconcile, because she’s still here, kind of. She’s not gone, but she’s not here either, not in the same way when I’d come home with a Wendy’s burger for her, knowing she loves them and that they remind her of dates with her boyfriend, Sal, who passed when she was in her 80s.
Wendy’s connects me to Mom because it connects Mom to Sal.
Think about it, Wendy’s is perfect for old folks’ dates. Bright. Limited, but consistent menu. Plenty of room between tables. Affordable. Unlimited napkins. Accessible, clean bathrooms. All adds up to date night, or in most cases, date late afternoon.
Sitting at my computer, laughter comes from her room, and a split second later, a little tinny, through the baby monitor, its speaker perched next to the pillow on my bed so I don’t miss anything while I sleep. Maybe she’s with the aide, or one of her many invisible friends. The laughs are less frequent, more precious. Growing up I’d hear the phrase this or that “warms the cockles of my heart,” and I’d say I don’t have cockles—I had a lot invested in being tough and hard as a kid, like an armadillo.
I recall finding a definition that described cockles as the deepest folds of one’s heart, and I liked that. I can’t find anything like that now, but I’ma stick with it. It takes a lot of energy to maintain the armor of an armadillo. It seems I’ve unfurled a bit. Her spontaneous laugh, a part of the Elayne I’ve known all my life, warms my cockles.
Cockles: the deepest part of oneself, ones innermost feelings
All my life, our lives. I was an infant in her arms, a toddler, tween, teen, the troubled years, through losses, deaths & difficulties, accomplishments & triumphs. Everyday tasks & routines. I feel her skinny arms around me, bony chin resting on the top of my head, an easy smile and laughter brush over my head as she holds me in my memories, I snuggle into her.
Laughter, honest & spontaneous, that’s joy, I think. It’s connection. Light, freedom. The manifestation of safety and comfort, you let your guard down and just be…you. The sound of smiles bubbling up from deep inside, maybe that’s what cockles are for, to hold our smiles & laughter until the time is right.
Sometimes, her dementia makes it feel like I have the best, and the worst of her.
⭐︎ She lives in her youth, middle age, rarely her dotage; she’s dependent, curious, full of awe and wonder. Filled with playfulness and a whole lot of silly.
☞ She lives in the inability to sleep; even exhausted her brain keeps on firing, she is irritable, confused and frightened.
⭐︎ Eating delicious, invisible morsels with her fingers, sucking the juices off her fingertips not to miss a drop.
☞ Refusing actual food.
⭐︎ Cuddling & nuzzling into me, our roles reversed, my chin on her head, holding her close to me.
☞ Clinging, afraid of being left.
Her laughter and snuggling warm the nonexistent cockles of this cold, old, armadillo’s heart.
Before I was this ⬆️ person, I was that ⬇️ dirtygirl.
If you’ve read this far, and are feeling warm and fuzzy…click the ❤️ to send me love. Click above ⬆️ to read about the wild life. Click below ⬇️ to send me a buck or two for the ☕️ jar.
"Aaaaaaa!" How beautiful. The tone of this piece, though... oof. Love the lens of looking back.
Oh, my goodness, my dear. That video of you and Elayne. Ma. So Ma. I wish I knew her. All her eras. The photo of the two of you, years apart. So much beauty, there. Armadillo? I think not. I think you just want us to think that. But girl, you have cockles up the wazoo. I won't tell. Promise.