Listening to the Melody of Living

It was two years ago today that I received the phone call from my sister's husband, Bob. I don't recall his precise words, but I know that when I understood what he was telling me that my world stopped and all I could hear was silence. It seems so contrary, how can silence have a sound? But it does, it's as if all the air has been sucked out of a room and the silence echoes loudly and then you realize that people are trying to ask you what's wrong. You hear an unfamiliar voice and vaguely recognize it as your own and it's saying, "My mother died this morning."

On this second anniversary of the death of my mother, Evelyn, I went back and re-read a piece that I wrote three weeks after her death in 2008. I was struck by the following paragraph.

I confess that I've never known this kind of emotional loss and I don't feel like me. I go to work and I go through the motions of what I should do; I smile, I talk, I try to be "fine." When people ask how I am, I always say, "I'm doing okay. I'm fine." But I'm not. Everything seems so overwhelming. I come home and watch hours of mindless television. I rarely turn on my home computer; I tell myself that I'll catch up on things tomorrow, but tomorrow never comes. All that I know to do is to keep moving forward one day at a time until I find my rhythm again. I realize that this loss is personal but it is also universal. I am not the first person to lose a mother and people do survive the loss; I just have to get back in sync with living again.

I still miss my mother. I miss her 7:00 a.m. Saturday morning call and her cheery inquiry, "Were you asleep?" I miss her stories about her older sister, my Aunt Nellie Ruth, who is always terribly concerned with two topics: Jesus and other people's sex lives. I miss her rearranging all the items in my pantry so that after she departed from a visit I couldn't find anything without calling her on the phone. Most of all I miss having her always in my corner, telling me that she loved me and that whatever was troubling me was going to be okay. However, in spite of the ache that I still have for her presence, somehow I've gotten back in sync with living again.

My sister, Rhonda, and her husband Bob live only a few blocks from me. I love their home; it's so warm and inviting. They are both very funny people and spending time with them always leaves me relaxed and happy. I feel so blessed to have them nearby. My brother, James, his wife, Lou and my adult nephew, JD live in Charlotte. We keep in contact via telephone and visit on holidays. My dad visits us and I call him every Thursday night for a marathon conversation about world affairs. Mama's youngest brother, my Uncle David calls me regularly just to chat, just as he used to do with my mother. I've renewed connections with some of my cousins with whom I had lost touch over the years. I think that we've all grown to appreciate the meaning of family more.

Then there's Little D, Bob and Rhonda's grandson. His father is Bob's son and Rhonda's stepson. Little D entered this world the December after my mother died; she never met him, but I know that she would have adored him.

This past Saturday evening, I was the babysitter. Little D and I had a marvelous time. We danced, sang songs (his favorite is Itsy Bitsy Spider), and identified all animals as "cow." I corrected him but he just grinned at me and pointed to the horse, dog, rooster, and duck and firmly announced, "cow." Fortunately, he does also call the cow a cow. For some reason, the cat is a cat and not a cow.

My favorite part of the evening was when he had worn himself out and decided to climb on my lap and rest his head on my shoulder. I read him a few nursery rhymes and then sang him a lullaby as he fell asleep.



Mama looking glamorous.



I've learned that time does have healing powers. There is still an ache in my heart and I have my moments when I miss mama so bad that I want to scream, but the ache is manageable and I no longer feel adrift. I find that I am more patient with others and with myself. I try to pay attention to the small joys of living. There is a rhythm to life; we just to have to take the time to listen to the melody.