This coming June, I’ll have officially lived longer without my mother in my life than I did with her. What a concept. I can no longer remember her voice, except for the sound of one painfully high note she would hit when we’d sing a particular song. “Ain’t gonna GRIEEEEEVE my Lord no more!”
I think she did that on purpose to make me laugh. At least I hope she did. No one in my family is known for singing, but that… that was excruciating.
I miss it.
It’s funny, the things you remember and the things you don’t. Sounds, smells, songs… Sounds particularly stick with me.
I remember the sound of cowbells on a distant slope in Switzerland when I was 19 and more in love than I had ever been before or since.
Travel sounds, in particular, seem to stick with me. Coqui frogs chirping on one swelteringly hot evening in Puerto Rico. A fog horn on the coast of Canada. The call to prayer in Istanbul. Mariachis in Mexico. Flamenco dancers in Spain.
I can hear those things like they are happening right this minute. I also remember hurtful things that have been said to me. I wish I didn’t.
I remember heading out for work one day, just like any other day, except my dog Sugar ran up to the fence and threw back her head and howled like her heart was going to break in two. Before I could leave, I had to run over and give her a hug.
I remember being told I’d never leave the little redneck Florida town where I grew up. Ha! You got that wrong. But you’re still there. And you voted for Trump, too.
I remember a loved one beside me, snoring. I was irritated at the time. Now I’d give anything to have someone beside me, snoring.
“I ain’t gonna grieve my Lord no more…”
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