Mom, Are You There?

I don't believe any of us have the answer to the great question of Death. Lots of theories, beliefs, opinions—but regardless, no concrete facts. Alluring evidence from children in Third World countries who remember former lives and navigate to their old homes and spouses. A Dalai Lama that is reborn over and over for centuries. Believe what you want, I say. As long as you don't harm anyone as a result of that belief. Because we'll all find out in the end. Or not, of course.

I was such a great believer in my mother's philosophy of soul and lives and afterlife, for many years I lived in secure comfort that something substantial would happen after I die. And, despite Houdini's failure to contact anyone, that my mother would make herself felt from The Other Side. I mean, I've experienced some things that make no sense unless you believe in a psychic connectivity.

After mom died, I inherited some of her Japanese wood blocks and prints. I already had some of my own. Since I moved into a smaller, shared, home, they have been hung where I can see them any time, practically at a glance. The experience is more concentrated than it was in a larger place where they were spread out among many rooms.

The antique print, White Rain at Shono, hangs next to the sink in my bathroom, where I can enjoy it several times a day. I never tire of its delicacy and humanity, as straw-coated figures dash up/down a hill through the slanted rain, the lowering sky behind them. It gives me pleasure—and it brings my mother closer to me.

It has a sister print with snow and a Shinto gate, and I trade these out in the cold weather so I can enjoy the winter scene as I do the rainy one in Spring and Summer.

Then there's the pink nightgown, with its tiny polka dots. I bought it and wore it, then—for some reason—my mother needed/liked it, and I gave it to her. She wore it for a few years. Then, when she died, I took it back and I've worn it for some more years. It is shapeless, baggy, and unattractive. But it has always been the most comfortable nightshirt I've worn, not possessing even a hint of trim or a single button to annoy you when turning over in bed.

And when I see myself in it, I think of you, mom. It's a physical garment that we shared and it's acquired value as a result. I will be very sad when I finally pitch it.

There are, of course, many things that she gave me, too. Some still bear the uncomfortable shadow of her gift-giving dysfunctionality; but since she is gone, most of them have mellowed into gifts that mean she thought of me, that she tried to buy things she knew I would like, that she loved me. And like a hundred tiny voices, all these objects cry out to me as I encounter them every day. The anger, the struggle for power, the need for space—these have all sluiced away with Time's passing. I am left with the reminders of love instead, like shining shells left behind by the ocean's tide. Treasures of the heart.

I haven't seen your spirit, Mom, or gotten "a psychic headache" (that tight band around my head), or had the hairs on my neck stand up. I have, I swear, heard you call my name out loud—just as I did when you were alive, sometimes. This last happened in Aunt Vivian's house on a hot Fourth of July weekend. But I couldn't be sure if it was inside or outside of my head, or just a misperception of some random sound in the other room.

What I do know is that I am surrounded by you in many ways, and I catch those glimpses all the time, and I feel them with love instead of anxiety. Because of that, you ARE here.

And I'm glad of it.