Motherless

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

 

My Brother

~ Nancy Malcolm ~ 3 Comments

 Impress Dad with these classy yet practical gifts.

I had a wonderful visit with my older brother recently.  It is always a tender feeling to be with the one person who knows my beginning; the one person who traveled the same path in childhood.

 

I am amazed to look into his eyes and see a part of our parents and even myself.  One glance into his eyes and I feel his love and compassion.  His eyes say ‘I know’, and that is enough for me.

 

We know our story together and yet we each have our own interpretation.  It is not uncommon for siblings to tell completely different tales of the same upbringing.  We are all individuals with our own experiences.

 

Yet, ‘we know’.  My brother is four years older than me.  When our mother died, his eight-year-old self already had so many more memories and experiences than my four-year-old self.  He knew.

 

Although I don’t recall us as kids, ever really talking about her death, he has been gracious with his memories through the years.  Some of his memories have become mine.  I’ll always be grateful for that.

 

Whenever I am fortunate enough to spend time with my brother, I feel comforted.  As our eyes lock, we see our story flash by.  Sometimes briefly and vague and sometimes, we stop to tell it again.
No one else in my life will ever share my story.  He is my link to our past and my anchor to the future.  He knows, and that is more than enough for me.

SCAN0011