We resurrect our dead in memory and dreams.
Today, September 8th, marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of my mother’s death.
Mom died as many of us might wish to die, largely free of pain, at home in her own bed, surrounded by her children, grandchildren, and husband, awake and aware until her final hours that death was approaching and facing that prospect with courage and faith in God. Her final words, delivered when she was in a coma, were “What I wish for…what I wish for…” and I will wonder until my own death to whom she was speaking and what she might have wished.
Today, September 8th, marks the twenty-fifth anniversary of my mother’s death.
Mom died as many of us might wish to die, largely free of pain, at home in her own bed, surrounded by her children, grandchildren, and husband, awake and aware until her final hours that death was approaching and facing that prospect with courage and faith in God. Her final words, delivered when she was in a coma, were “What I wish for…what I wish for…” and I will wonder until my own death to whom she was speaking and what she might have wished.
Whatever you may believe about an afterlife, the dead do go on living with us. They haunt our minds and souls while we make our way through our days, popping up at odd moments decades after their passage, revived from the sepulcher by something as simple as a word or phrase, a scent of tea or perfume, a few bars of a song, the brush of a summer breeze against our faces.
If we knew them, if they were a part of our childhood, then our parents in particular live within us all our days and speak to us from beyond the grave. Their influence goes beyond the color of our eyes or the shape of our face. If they were present in our growing up, then their voices and words become a part of our voices and words, their ideas and dreams mingle with those we pick up in a thousand other ways, their mannerisms—a certain nod of the head, a steely look, a lovely smile—sometimes become ours.
This exchange is a single link in a chain going back to the beginnings of human time. We are made by our environment, yes, but we are also joined to all those who came before us. In Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe wrote “…our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cutpurse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years…every moment is a window on all time.”
If “every moment is a window on all time” is truly the case, and I believe it to be so, then today I will spend some moments remembering the life and death of one of the finest people I ever knew. Some sadness will doubtless step onto the stage as I replay some memories—my mother died young, missing in particular the arrival of additional grandchildren she would have cherished—but for the most part the scenes from my life with Mom will bring joy and laughter. She brought gifts of love to her friends and family, faced adversity with courage and honor, and in her final days showed her children how to die with grace and dignity.
Today I remember you, Mom.
Your sons and daughters, my brothers and sisters, remember you.
Requiescat in pace.
If we knew them, if they were a part of our childhood, then our parents in particular live within us all our days and speak to us from beyond the grave. Their influence goes beyond the color of our eyes or the shape of our face. If they were present in our growing up, then their voices and words become a part of our voices and words, their ideas and dreams mingle with those we pick up in a thousand other ways, their mannerisms—a certain nod of the head, a steely look, a lovely smile—sometimes become ours.
This exchange is a single link in a chain going back to the beginnings of human time. We are made by our environment, yes, but we are also joined to all those who came before us. In Look Homeward, Angel, Thomas Wolfe wrote “…our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cutpurse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years…every moment is a window on all time.”
If “every moment is a window on all time” is truly the case, and I believe it to be so, then today I will spend some moments remembering the life and death of one of the finest people I ever knew. Some sadness will doubtless step onto the stage as I replay some memories—my mother died young, missing in particular the arrival of additional grandchildren she would have cherished—but for the most part the scenes from my life with Mom will bring joy and laughter. She brought gifts of love to her friends and family, faced adversity with courage and honor, and in her final days showed her children how to die with grace and dignity.
Today I remember you, Mom.
Your sons and daughters, my brothers and sisters, remember you.
Requiescat in pace.
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