Memory Lapse

January 17, 2006 at 10:14 AM

I wasn’t even sure what day of the week it was today, after working in the kitchen for a conference at our retreat center. I don’t usually work weekends. Monday, right? The 16th. The banks will all be closed because this is Martin Luther King Day. Which means...

I forgot to call my mother on her birthday.

She sounded so kind when I heard her voice a day late, as though it was the perfect day anyway, as though it was just fine that she didn’t get cake or ice cream, or that she wanted steak and got chicken, or that her only daughter forgot to call... My mom works overtime to keep from putting guilt trips on me, since a.) I have an overactive guilty conscious and b.) I do a lot of lousy things sometimes, like forget my parents on their birthdays. Both of them this year. I tried at least eight times to remember, too. When I can’t remember simple things like birthdays, I question whether or not I really miss my folks, and whether I love them at all. I must love them, but why do I put them out of my mind like that?

She was telling me about a song she was learning on her dulcimer. “Here I am, Lord” was the title. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that hymn. I wish you could record it and send it to me or something.” As we chatted, she moved toward the piano to find the melody for me.

Those unmistakable old notes from the out-of tune piano, in the background over the phone, they were exactly as I remembered them when I was at home. Suddenly, I was three years old again, lying under the covers in the dark, upstairs, listening again. Mamma used to play after she tucked all us kids in and kissed us goodnight. Lullabies from the piano would hush us to sleep in that familiar, comforting way. It was my first taste of music, the wonderful thing that music could be when it communicated love. As I drowsed off into slumber, the worries of the whole world slipped away, and the last thing I remembered was the steadfast love of my mother, which was all that really mattered to me.

How could I explain to her the tears that I was silently chasing off my cheeks? And all because of the silly old hymn, played by familiar fingers on a familiar piano, thousands of miles away, and a memory of years past. She reminded me of a bond that never grows old, despite my thirty years and forgotten birthdays.

From Pauline Lerner
Posted on January 17, 2006 at 5:56 PM

Emily, don't feel guilty. Just tell your mother the things you just told us. You can tell her that I wish my mother had been like that. She was not loving; she blocked me from taking piano lessons; and she almost blocked me from taking violin lessons. Tell your mother that I wish her a happy birthday, too, and that I believe that she must be a good mother, too.

Do you want me to send you an email on Feb. 13 or 14 to remind you about Valentine's Day?

From Marcianne O'Day
Posted on January 17, 2006 at 8:04 PM

What a beautiful anecdote! It sounds like forgetting her birthday initially helped you to feel your connection to your mother more deeply. It certainly prompted me to remember my mother's love for me despite my extra-flakiness.

I too have an extra guilt gene. It's great that your mother is sensitive to that. Mine is as well- and it is such a relief.

From Terez Mertes
Posted on January 18, 2006 at 1:53 AM

Oh, Emily, that was so beautiful. What a visceral description of the memory - made me think of the same thing. ((My mom didn't play music, tho. She just listened to a Mantovani record that I'd just cringe to hear now.)) You perfectly described that timeless child's security. Very cool. Great little gift to Mom - send the anecdote to her, if you haven't already!

From Emily Grossman
Posted on January 18, 2006 at 3:44 AM

Yeah, I sent it to her first. Had to make sure she had some tears of her own, after what she did to me. :)

Thanks for the compliment, Terez.

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Memory Lapse

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