I hear the violin strains of the instrumental Intermezzo for the Mascagni opera Cavalleria rusticana and, with the music, in saunters my mother, ready to sing and soothe my soul. Though my mother died 40 years ago on October 31, hearing any one of hundreds of classical music pieces produces the same sweet vision.
"Hit it, maestro!"
"Hello, Mom!"
Were she to return, my mother might recognize herself in my mirror; but she would not recognize my life. The life in suburban New York that she knew had ended in divorce and spun out to California, back East to a lakeside cottage, then to a horse farm and on to Florida - all to the good. No doubt, she would adore my husband and partner of 27 years, my grown daughters, their fine men and my grandchildren.
I'm not sure my mother would fathom my path into writing that started in earnest in 1981. Such a far-fetched idea, writing for a living. She knew no one who did such a thing, certainly not any women. So, I’d be somewhat peculiar. Being kind, Mom might pause to consider this turn of events as she wiped her glasses, then suggest coffee and look around for a stereo to play.
Forty years is a long time to miss such a lovely lady, just as 48 years is a long time to miss my father; 21 years my brother Jim; 20 years my sister Charlotte; eight years my brother Ed and sister Monica; and four years my sister Peg. Add to that their spouses and, tragically, some of their children, and you’re looking at a crowd of beloveds I’ll never see in the flesh again.
But, thankfully they all sang, so, I see them when I hear their music. For my father, that would be Pagliacci; for Jim, Mozart and Wagner’s Tannhauser; for Charlotte, Glenn Miller and Broadway musicals; for Ed, 50s rock ‘n roll and Scheherazade; for Monica, Elvis and Ave Maria; for Peg, Shostakovich. I'm reminded it is a miraculous gift to have shared existence with them, especially considering the chance of being alive at all is 1 in 400,000 trillion.
So, I listen to plenty of music. When my children have occasion to miss me, I imagine they'll find me traipsing in on some melody. And, I’ve already laid the groundwork for my grandchildren with a song that I pump up the volume on whenever I see them: Pharrell Williams, Happy.
Mother Reading, a sketch by Ed Morrisey, 1975