The last time I saw my mother was on a Wednesday morning nearly two years ago. I was let into the room and left alone with her. She was lying between two white sheets. Here eyes were closed. I was ostensibly there to identify her and make sure they put the right person in the right box, which seemed somewhat irrelevant to me, as she would be buried in accordance with Jewish custom without embalming, in a biodegradable casket. Literally dust to dust. But the confirmation had to be done. I was told to "take as long as I needed." It was her. That didn't take too long. The room was antiseptic. Was I supposed to say goodbye? To me, it wasn't really her anymore. And the woman who had been my mother for fifty years had been gone for a long time already. I touched her forehead and slightly flinched as her skin was cold, though she had only been gone a few hours. Her mouth was unemotional, but peaceful. Her long and painful descent into darkness was over. I pressed my fingers against her hair. My poor Mom. She should have spent her final years at home, surrounded by family. I thought of my first memory of her and a song came to mind.
She wasn't particularly artistic or musical, but to me, her angelic voice echoed off the ceramic tile like we were in a grand marble cathedral. She appeared as only a fuzzy silhouette against the window, in a room clouded with steam. Her head moved slowly from side to side. I was chest high in water that was never too hot, or too cold, but always perfectly warm. She scrubbed me with firm, but gentle hands. The shampoo remained a safe distance above my eyes at all times.
🎵 "I see the moon
The moon sees me
The moon sees somebody I want to see
Over the mountains
Over the sea
That's where my heart is longing to be
So God bless the moon
And God bless me
And God bless the somebody I want to see"
Don't know where Mom came up with that particular tune, but I was serenaded with its simple message of longing during every bath. After she obliged me with several encore performances, I was scooped up and cocooned in a towel fresh out of the dryer, then covered in flannel and slipped into bed.
When I was sick and had a fever, she stayed home from work, wiped me down with rubbing alcohol and served me toast in bed, with the crusts cut off. If she had to go out, she distracted me with a cookie and returned with coloring books. If we were playing in the front yard at dinnertime, she packed up the food in a table cloth and brought it outside for an impromptu picnic, as other kids scurried home to avoid being late and garner the stern glares from their irate parents.
She stood up for me when I was right, and reprimanded me when I was wrong.
Rather than refusing to buy me something, she offered to split the cost with me, to see if I really wanted it.
She told me if I ever got into trouble, no matter what kind of trouble, she should always be my first call.
If someone was my friend, she couldn't be nicer to them.
She could never stay angry for more than an hour.
The forecast this weekend is sunny and warm. Have a beautiful day, friends. Stoke the wistful longing in the smoldering embers of your memory. Take a walk outside. Think of someone who has gone over the mountains.
And call your mom.
