“It’ll be fine,” My mother said, dismissing my first grader concerns over our impending move to Arizona. “Besides, in Arizona everyone lives in houses made out of rattlesnakes and the biggest one is owned by Willie Nelson. If you’re good I’ll take you to see it.”
I envisioned walls made from snakes tied up end to end, hissing and rattling through the night. I don’t know why I believed her or if I even knew who Willie Nelson was, but for some odd reason I found her obvious fabrication comforting. I have yet, by the way, to see a house in Arizona made from rattlesnakes.
Before she passed away 2 ½ years ago, I had been in the habit of calling my mother, at minimum, every Friday early in the afternoon. For several months after her death I would periodically find my fingers pushing the buttons on my phone that would call up her number. In the few seconds that it took me to process my mistake everything would feel okay again, as if I could call and hear how her week had gone or listen to the silence as she put her dog on the phone to say hello.
In those first weeks I would call her cell phone number just to hear her outgoing message voice speak a few words that had recently been so meaningless. There was something about those few words, spoken in the rich deep tone of her melodic voice, slow and measured, with a cadence similar to my own.
I don’t think a day has passed since her death when my mind hasn’t wandered to thinking about her. I no longer remember the bad things, the times when we didn’t get along, the moments when she let me down. I choose not too. I only remember the good times, her relentless advocacy for the underdog, her natural sense of justice, her sneaking wit and familiar sense of humor.
I carry her with me always, as we all do with those who have gone before us. I haven’t been the same person since she passed. There is something about death that changes us, that seems to alter the very chemical make up or our being. There is something about death that, even as we heal, leaves a scar to remind us of what once was there.
“Get off the phone,” pause “Phone head.” She said, smiling to reveal a mischievous squint from the corner of her eye. I let out a quick toothy grin and rolled my eyes. I was 16 and she was so lame, but still somehow charming. “I mean it,” she said. “Get off the phone before I phone your head.”
“Hold on,” I told my friend on the other end of the line. “Ma, that doesn’t even make sense.”
“I’ll make sense of your face.” She shook her fist. We both laughed and I ended my call. My mother could make anything into an empty threat. It is funny how that is one of things I miss most.
If you see me around and feel the need to threaten someone, go ahead and make it me. Just make sure the threat is absurd and delivered with love.
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