”Beautiful morning glory, kissed and caressed by the dew. Beautiful morning glory! Good morning glory to you-ou-ou-ou.”
My mother’s voice carries through the birches and because the sun has gone down and the light isn’t good, I can’t immediately see her.
I’m on a road I don’t know, although it looks quite pretty. There are steep inclines on both sides and lots of youngish trees.
I’ve run too far again, run out of light. This happens quite often in my dreams recently. I’m out for a nice leisurely run, lost in my thoughts and when I turn to go home, I realize I’m miles from home and its dark and cold and I’m scared.
”Beautiful morning glory…” I can hear my Mom singing again, but one of the strange things about the dream (not the strangest) is that it is in her voice, as I last heard it. It’s my mom’s senior lady voice.
When I was about 4 years old, Mom and I took early morning walks around the neighborhood. She would sing the Beautiful Morning Glory song and twirl me around when we got to the ‘good morning glory to you’ part. And because I was 4, we had to do it again and again. She would have been about 35 years old then.
I remember young Mom singing the Morning Glory song, but I have no memory of 78 year old Mom singing this song.
The whole dream seems to be at a weird pitch. The steep inclines, the way I’m standing tilting my head to look up through the trees. Everything is at odd angles.
And then I see her and she’s appearing as Tweedle-Dee (or Tweedle-Dum. I never could tell them apart) She’s making her way awkwardly down the hill toward me, singing for all she’s worth. I’m riveted. I don’t know why she looks like that, but I know it’s her and I know she’s going to give me a hug.
At this point, I wake up. I’m on the hideaway bed/couch in the den and I’ve managed to wedge myself face-down at a weird angle where the cushions meet the back of the couch. I struggle to right myself. Ah! This is why the whole dream was tilted. It’s quite a long time before the dream leaves me. Why did she have to appear as Tweedle-Dee? I’m annoyed at her in my not quite awake state. I’m upset I didn’t get to hug her and talk to her.
That’s how our last week together was: Awful, frustrating beyond words, wanting my mother to stop this crazy cancer nonsense and act right. It was a wretched good-bye.
The saving grace in grief, as far as I can tell so far, is this: after the shock and horror of death, after walking around for a year or so torn up and disgusted, haunted by the end, one day (or night) your memory broadens beyond the end. You recall the beginning.
Originally posted February 2016.
A Letter from Viv 