I heard my mother’s voice twice yesterday.
I was walking past an old perfectly restored Dodge that reminded me of the car she drove as a teenager—a car that had a Yogi Bear decal on the rear trunk. She loved that old car. Somewhere inside, I heard her say, “Look at that! It’s just like my old Yogi!” I could feel her smile. I couldn’t help but indulge in a goofy grin and stood close to the car. I had an impulse to pickup the phone and call my mom to tell her what I saw—to call her and make her laugh at my foolishness and sentimentality. I could always make her laugh. And entertaining her was one of my life’s purest pleasures.
The second time I heard her voice was in a dream. Her voice was so real it startled me awake a few minutes ago. It was a long distance call. Mom was laughing and telling me about her day. I couldn’t respond. It wasn’t a nightmare, but it was damn frustrating. I felt the warmth of her voice. The same voice I would hear in the still hours of the night when I was sick and called out for her. She would sit next to me, stroke my hair and tell me everything was going to be better in the morning. That voice always made me feel small and innocent, but hopeful and stronger. It made me feel loved.
Echoes of her voice…resound in my soul. Thanks, Mom.