Forever Present
I opened the door; her kind eyes met mine so lovingly, colored the same kind of blue I remembered as a child. For a moment, it was as though the clocks stopped, and we had all the time in the world. I was sitting with her at the dining room table where she helped me study my vocabulary words giving me tips on how to spell and use them correctly. “Words are like music. When composed harmoniously, they’re magnificent, powerful and beautiful. Combine them wisely. Use them carefully.”
Despite the shadow of the day closing in around us, she indulged my love for words, crowning me vocabulary champion supreme placing a makeshift crown on my head before preparing a quick dinner.
I softly approached her, noticing her hands were arthritic—pale, frail and rough—full of wrinkles and protruding veins. I took her hands in mind, remembering the strength they’d once possessed and the wondrous things she did with her hands—cooking three meals a day, chauffeuring my brothers and me around town, sewing all my clothes, quilting, drawing, and playing the piano when she had time left in her schedule.
Ofttimes I arrived home from school and found her sitting at her piano playing Debussy’s [begin italics]Clair de Lune[end italics] from memory. Her fingers, graceful as a ballerina on pointe, danced across the set of ivory and blacks making beautiful pirouettes. For hours she danced with assurance playing her favorite tunes and running her fingers from one end of the keyboard to the other without a stop. Time dissolved around her. The world and her worries disappeared, and a look of deep content crossed her face as if she’d found some spiritual, almost Divine connection.
“You disappeared for quite some time, Mother. Where did you go?” I asked when she finally stopped.
“I’m not quite certain. Perhaps heaven. Well, at least heaven on earth.”
For Mother, the kingdom of music was not the kingdom of this world. It was heaven, her escape hatch, and being a pianist is what she aspired to be before she became a mom.
The light in her room was cold and harsh, unlike the warm light in her kitchen where we often sat on cold winter mornings drinking hot chocolate with the comforting heat emanating from her open oven door. We spent ages at her kitchen table—the steady companion of her freshly-baked yeast bread and the place we frequented together sometimes quietly talking, sometimes just silently enjoying each other’s company, and sometimes talking seriously.
“Did Granny go to heaven?” I asked shortly after her mother’s passing.
“Yes. I’m certain she did.”
“What’s heaven like.”
“No one knows for sure.”
“Why not?” I inquired in a curious tone of voice.
“When a person dies, they can’t come back and tell us what heaven’s like. So, we can’t know. We can only guess.”
“Maybe heaven is a library, and Granny’s there reading all her favorite books.”
“Maybe so.” She chuckled. “She did love to read.”
“Do people look the same when they go to heaven?” I asked with a somber expression on my face.
She studied my face for a long time then said, "I don't know. I don't think so."
"Then how do people recognize each other when they get there?"
"I’m not positive, Sweetie. I suppose they just feel one another. You don't need your eyes to love.”
Suddenly, I fiercely regretted not having paid better attention when she tried to teach me and share her knowledge with me, in a way that she’ll never do now.
The wrinkles between her eyebrows whispered of far more serious expressions, of which I had only seen directed at me once—the day she caught me wearing makeup to school without her permission. I broke my ankle in gym class prompting the school nurse to call Mother informing her that I’d had an accident in gym class and she needed to come right away. She arrived and found me lying on a stretcher on the gym floor, my left ankle twisted to one side. She looked at my ankle, turned her head sharply giving me a hard look—the kind that can only travel from mother to daughter. "What's that on your face?" she asked, lifting a disapproving eyebrow.
All at once the moment passed. Her kind blue eyes turned cold and lifeless. The heart monitor blared. I saw something rise from her body. It was a beautiful whirl of pastel color, vibrant in appearance and movement, slowly leaving her chest. My own chest filled with joy, and my heart felt as if it was lifting to this light. Suddenly, there was a hand on my shoulder, and a nurse said, “Sorry, love. She’s gone.” I lost sight of her light, feeling bereft at being left behind.
Negotiating life after Mother’s passing was a challenge. She’d been such a integral part of my life and such a strong influence, making her absence unbearable at times. I missed her soothing voice, her gentle caress, her encouraging words, her compassionate eyes, her gentle attentiveness, her strength, and her commanding physical presence. [begin italics]How, dear Mother,[end italics] I pleaded and cried, [begin italics]will I carry on without you?[end italics] begging the universe for an answer.
My pleas were soon answered—the first time in a short but rather vivid and intense visitation dream in which Mother hugged me and kissed me on the check. The dream was so real, more real than my usual dreams, and I just sensed Mother was with me. When I awoke, I felt loved, unable to shake the comforting conviction that my deceased mother had communicated with me. This visitation was one of many such moments to follow.
Weeks after Mother’s passing, I rushed to the elevator in my office building, late and frantic as usual. The doors opened, and I stepped inside, only to have a horde of people board the elevator behind me squishing together until the elevator was packed to capacity. The doors closed in front of us; my claustrophobia kicked in. My chest tightened making breathing difficult. I panicked until I heard Clair de Lune playing softly in the background. I breathed in deeply and immediately relaxed, sensing Mother’s reassuring presence was with me.
I began noticing the same number, 1316 (our home address), appearing randomly on license plates, in telephone numbers, and in credit card account numbers. Even now, some 20 years since Mother’s passing, that string of numbers frequently appears, and I’m convinced it’s her way of telling me she’s still with me.
Sometimes I arrive home, suddenly aware that my house smells like Mother’s signature rose-scented perfume—a scent no one in my house uses. Other times, I feel her embrace or see her figure out of the corner of my eye. Sometimes I hear her voice talking to me, either out-loud or in my mind, especially when I’m writing, struggling with just the right word or phrase to use.
Although Mother’s physically gone from my life, these passing moments are evidence that her spirit lingers here letting me know that she’s still with me, encouraging me, guiding me in her unique motherly way, checking in on me regularly, and coming to my side whenever I need her.
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