Family

I see us, my siblings and I, coming to this world together as one long, and long-awaited, debut. First I jump through a hoop, and I'm carrying a baton and dressed in some sort of Uncle Sam costume, with the big hat and all. I bow and point the baton and here comes Marybeth, a little girl in this show, with an oversized lollipop (it's for the stage, after all!) There's a pause and then Kathy jumps in, bowing -- everyone knows her already, the applause is spontaneous. Marge is self-effacing, blushing perhaps at the attention; then we all huddle together to welcome Mike, cute Mike, and there we are now, the cast, the ones the people came to see.

Our Mother died early yesterday morning, and I came to work, waiting for the bus under a too bright, almost bleached out, sky, and I felt so lonely. I guess the grass is always green in memory, the sidewalks clean where we played and rode bikes, the stomachs full, the nights restful. Even after you don't need your parents to provide for you any more, they do, they do.
Dad died 4 years ago. I'm almost 60, and only now am I an orphan. I guess that's pretty lucky. But the point is that being able to take Mom for granted, being able to rest my head on the certainty of her existence, has been a comfort, the base comfort, the foundation of other comforts, all my life.

Years ago I had an insight, a jokey insight, that the basis of all philosophy, of all religion, of all yearning is: "I want my mommy." Maybe.

I talked to her Sunday night, hours before she passed. She sounded eager to talk, despite her obvious weakness. She addressed me as "Sweetie" for the first time since, maybe, kindergarten, and was rambling about an intersection near a forest preserve -- maybe there was a favorite restaurant near there, or it's near KiddieLand -- and recipes for Irish dishes. (I don't recall that she ever did any Irish cooking, unless it was corned beef). She said she assumed Skylar was in bed; he wasn't, and I was going to put him the phone but before I could she handed her phone back to my sister and fell asleep.

That night, Sunday night, and for days before, I felt like she was with me when I chanted. I've always been able to commune with (not necessarily communicate, but commune) people (alive or not) when I chant for them. I felt good those days with Mom; she felt okay, happy, full.

Then Monday morning Marge called with the news, and I called Mary in Mississippi and woke her up. She said Tennyson, the youngest great-grandchild, had woken up, disturbed, in the middle of the night, and he was sleeping with her. We talked, Mary was shaken, and I wished she could be here, with us.

Then I chanted and, oddly, I couldn't find Mom. I couldn't. I searched the universe, Berwyn, our living room, Cicero, Ireland. Nothing felt right.

Mari dropped me at the bus stop, and there I was lonely in the sunshine, chanting silently, and I thought about Tennyson and found Mom. She was in Mississippi. Duh. That's when the tears came. There was Mom, at the tail end of the line, with the newest performers in the act, the youngest children in her family -- and most of all with Mary. Mary and Mary, my bookends.

Now that I know that, of course, she's everywhere. We're clinging to each other, and we're both, mostly, happy and curious.

It's wonderful how she affects people, even if the effect at the moment is grief. Mari is the most sensitive and loving person I've ever met, and she went right to where my mother is, felt it with me, maybe even before me. Samie too. It's been years since my mother visited Omaha, but Omaha's not really a place but a family, not a destination but a feeling. We're all feeling now -- each of us is feeling, and feeling is what there is.

I've been fantasizing for a long time about being able to play "Let It Be" at her funeral -- you know, "I wake up to the sound of music/mother Mary come to me". But that's someone else's song. I think instead I'll just whisper goodbye, and I'll address her as what I imagine is the highest title to which a woman can aspire. I call her what I called her in kindergarten, what I called her the first time I knew her real name. I'll whisper: "Bye, Mommy."

She'll answer: "Oh brother."