Daughter

Mama

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ Leave a comment

Mama

Written by  Nancy Malcolm

 

 

“Mama?”

“Mama?”

I heard it from underneath my hazy blanket of sleep.

“Mama?  Are you asleep?”  Her drowsy breath tickled my face which was mashed softly between the mattress and pillow.  My sheet was tucked up around my chin, while one foot hung uncovered. Nothing registered except my name.  I knew my name was being whispered.  

“Mama,” she uttered softly and then touched my left eyelid to open it.  “Can I get in bed with you?”

Of all the lovely names whispered in the night, there can be no sweeter name than ‘mama.’  There is no other whisper so quiet yet still heard clearly, light-years away. There is no other utterance that can bring instant tears to an eye or cause a heart to fill with warmth.

My mother has been gone most of my life.  I don’t remember calling her name or hearing her voice, but I have had days and even nights when I have felt her presence.

Years ago, I took a new job in a big city, a few miles from the small town where I had been living.  It was after a divorce and I was tender and frightened to venture out amongst the traffic and spaghetti maze of highway.  The first morning as I drove to my new job, right before the sun awoke, I found myself stuck in commuter chaos. It felt as if everyone knew where they were going and how to navigate driver rules and courtesies.  Everyone but me.  

Cars were weaving in and out in stop and go fashion.  Taillights tapped. Horns honked and I heard a faint siren from behind, which direction it was going, I could not tell.  Tears stung my eyes and I sucked in a long, shaky breath and whispered to myself, “Get it together, girl.” I had a death grip on the steering wheel at ten and two, so I moved my right hand to the gear shift to make my knuckles relax.  Out of nowhere, I whispered again, “Mama. Mama, I need you.” In an instant, I felt a hand squeeze my hand atop of the gear shift. The warmth of her hand calmed my nerves and gave me the strength to steady the wheel. I let out a long, heavy breath and for the first time in days, I felt safe.  For the rest of my drive and every day thereafter, I felt her hand until finally, I regained my confidence.

My whisper of “Mama” brought her to me just as my daughter’s soft voice caused me to throw open the covers and snuggle her in close to my heart.  Years have passed, and time has silenced these whispers, but I have not forgotten the feeling of either one. I heard the whispers through my heart and my mama did too.  Our names were whispered in love and softly engraved on our souls forever.  

Whisper My Name

Randy Travis

I heard a freight train out across the way

I heard a woman sing Amazing Grace

I heard a night bird call to its mate

When I heard you whisper my name

I heard freedom break its chain

I heard a heartbeat where once on sound remained

I heard angels rise and praise

When I heard you whisper my name

I heard music bring a heart of stone to tears

I heard peace ring like an anthem through the years

And I heard hatred fall from grace

When I heard you whisper my name

Beating softly against the waves

Fell a sound of an early morning rain

And though the lighting and thunder came

I still heard you whisper my name

I heard music bring a heart of stone to tears

I heard peace ring like an anthem through the years

And I heard hatred fall from grace

When I heard you whisper my name

And I heard angels rise and praise

When I heard you whisper my name

When Pictures Are All You Have

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

 

SCAN0039 (2)
My whole relationship with my mother is through photographs.  I don’t remember talking with her or being held by her. I only know the likeness of our features through these black and white photos adhered to the page with black corner holders, neatly placed in an album.

My Dad managed to continue my “baby book” photo album until I was about 10.  The photos early on with my mother stop when I was 3. My mother was already sick and becoming unable to care for us.

Then, of course, there are the pictures of my brother and me after my mother died.  I see the stress on our faces, particularly my Dad.  He struggled to make us look nice and well

DSC_0351
My 5th birthday party 

put together, and no matter how hard he tried, we looked motherless.  He would pose us in our Easter clothes or Sunday best and tell us to smile. The outcome is obvious in these Kodak moments as he tried to make us look like our mother would have wanted. Alas, no pasted on smile could hide our broken hearts.

SCAN0042 (2)
My Dad, brother and I seven months after my mother died.

I learned a lot about my mother’s personality and countenance from her high school yearbooks, her college scrapbook, and my parents’ wedding pictures.   I saw her as a young lady, vibrant and energetic. I saw her laughing with friends and smiling on her wedding day. I read the endearing remarks from her school chums as they professed everlasting friendship and love.  Everything I know about my mother came from those that loved her and from these priceless black and white snapshots.

SCAN0001
Mom and Auntie Sue

 

 

My impressions of her came through the lens of someone else’s view, but for me, that is enough.  I’ll let their love and admiration, their memories be mine as well. When pictures are all you have, it has to be enough.

SCAN0018
My parents’ wedding

 

Dear Daughter,

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

 

Dear Daughter,

Dear Daughter,

It is impossible to predict circumstances or situations that might befall us.  You did not choose the life that was given you.  I did not choose to be motherless, just as you had no choice in being without a grandmother.

I feel it sometimes when I recall my own Grandma.  She taught me to sew and fixed me old-fashioned hot cakes in a cast iron skillet.  When I spent the night with her, she would tuck me in, piling home-made quilts on top before telling me she loved me.

I hear it in your voice when you say we spoil our grandkids by giving them too much or catering to their wishes.  I forget that you didn’t have that.  You didn’t have a grandmother’s love.  You may not know that it is a grandmother’s privilege to give this unconditional outpouring to her grandchildren.  I have heard it said that a grandmother is like an angel who takes you under her wing, she prayers and watches over you and she would give you anything.

Just as I cannot know what my relationship would have been with my mother, I cannot know how she would have been as a grandmother to you.  I cannot predict how the past might have been.  I cannot describe what never was.  But, I am sorry you didn’t have a grandmother.  I’m sad you missed that bond as you grew up.  I would give anything to have her here for you as well as myself.

It seems unbelievably unfair that we have had to navigate life without a mother and a grandmother, but, we have done just that.  Perhaps, in a quiet moment, we can reflect on our depth and our capacity to love even though our guide was not able to be with us.  Somehow, we learned to be in this world while receiving our direction from above.
Christopher Morley said, “It is as grandmothers, that our mothers come into the fullness of their grace.”   As I am coming into the fullness of my grace, I wish for you to feel your grandmother’s love through me.  When you see my interactions with the grandchildren, stop and feel the love for yourself.  Whatever I do, say, feel and express to them…..take it into your heart.  Let the little child within you be at peace, and as you do this, feel your grandmother’s love through me.  The healing balm of her love transcends time and space, we have only to believe…..and I do.
Love always

The Autumn of My Life

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 4 Comments

Old Grief and New LossThe Autumn of my life began in July 1977.  I was 8 months pregnant when I suddenly went into labor and delivered my daughter….stillborn.

As suddenly as a life is conceived, a life may end.  As much as we may want, anticipate and long for a child, we may equally grieve and mourn and fall prey to depression.  There is no guidebook or manual to read that instructs us on how to be…how to cope… or how to live with the sadness.

Because my mother died when I was very young, I didn’t know what to expect with pregnancy or delivery.  I didn’t know about children or even the smallest part of mothering.  You would think, however, that I would have known how to deal with the loss and pain, but alas.. I did not.

It seems I was completely inept at grieving.  All the years of missing my mother somehow tumbled into the loss of my child.  It became one and the same.  Old grief and new loss melded.  

Through time, of course, a slow mending began and healing took root, but parts were hard and lonely and dark.  Then finally, another pregnancy.  During this 2nd pregnancy, I dared not to plan or prepare.  I waited to think of names and I drug my feet at buying a crib.  Then somewhere after the 8th month, I took a breath and instinctively knew it would be ok.  I felt an inkling of peace, a boost of hope, and a firm resolve that no matter what, everything would be alright.  And, it was.

My Autumn would turn 40 years old this July.  In my mind, she is a baby.  A wee little soul flying back from whence she came.  I sometimes like to think that maybe my mother is holding my daughter.  Hopefully, my mother was there to meet her as she floated to the other side.  Perhaps, the two of them have enjoyed these 40 years together as grandmother and grandchild.  It heals my soul to think so.  My mother, who never lived to be a grandmother and my daughter, who didn’t live to be a child, living perfectly together, healed and whole; connected, just like I would have wanted.

Someday, when my time here is ended, I know those two will be there to greet me as I cross the bridge.  Hand in hand, two souls will welcome me and whisper, “We missed you!” My heart will know them instantly and in that moment, the Autumn of my life will be complete.

Daddy

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 1 Comment

Daddy

My Daddy was a “saver”.  A procurer of particulars…a frugal forager.  It was probably because he was a product of the Depression, but for whatever reason, if you needed ‘it’, he had it, at least one and perhaps an alternative.

However, when he died, I saw this tendency to save and how far reaching its depth.  When Daddy passed away we found many souvenirs, balls of twine, ink pens, jars of nails and business cards.  We found his report cards, measuring tapes, hundreds of bank statements and thousands of photographs labeled neatly into chronological albums.  There were boxes, bags and myriad other containers full of mementos of his life.   

My brother and I waded through his things sometimes laughing …sometimes crying.  Towards the end of our sorting, we bantered across to each other, “You take it!”  “No, YOU take it!”  Still, we filled large, black Hefty bags with things to give away or dispose of.  His obsessive ‘saving’ wore us out.  Sometimes, as we discarded, I whispered a prayer, “I’m sorry Daddy, we just have to let this go,” in hopes that he understood.

Last year I was going through a box of Daddy’s things that I had ‘saved’ seven years ago.  When I brought it home, I thought these were all things I would go through right away and look at often.  But, seven years had gone by and I had just found the strength to open the box.

Inside of this box were our report cards, Baptism announcements, college essay’s, school pictures and more.  I found an old, faded manila envelope, 8 ½ by 11, sealed with a piece of tape.  Enclosed, were letters and cards my brother and I had sent Daddy through the years; Father’s Day cards, poems, and notes we had written him and behind those were a clump of letters tied with a string….our letters to Santa Claus.

As I unfolded this one pristine piece of notebook paper, I was transported, as I read my childish handwriting proclaiming my goodness all year and a love for a certain red cowgirl outfit.  Not all of our letters to Santa were saved, but a few were obviously chosen to be put away and remembered.

My Dad wasn’t always good at saying he loved us.  He wasn’t the sentimental, huggy, mushy type.  But, after he was gone, I saw his tender side amongst the 14 retractable measuring tapes and boxes of Navy war memorabilia.

There were cards and notes his children had sent and precious letters to Santa that must have touched his heart.  Suddenly, all of this stuff he had ‘saved’, became a piece of him…a bridge to the other side, where he was standing, arms open wide, saying, “See?  I love you.  I always loved you.”  And my heart sang back, “I know.  Happy Father’s Day, daddy.   I love you, too.”