Chocolate Covered Candied Ginger
I picked up a box of chocolate covered candied ginger at Trader Joe's this week to send to mom. Her faves. Finding a box to send them in, writing a card... Each step seemed almost surreal to me as I wondered how many times I might get to do this simple thing again. How many packages have I sent in the last year? How many will I get to send before she is gone and there is no one to send them to?
It is very strange living with death as something that is just "waiting to happen", with no way to resolve the feelings really, other than to acknowledge and feel them. And move on.
I was listening to her voice on my voicemail. She had left a message one day when we were not home. Short, nothing "big" just a message. And thinking of the many messages I had received over the years from my father. Especially that last year when we spoke fairly often, weekly, or more... it never occurred to me to save the recordings, or put them on the computer or... do something, whatever it is you might do, before they hit that built in time line in the telephone company voicemail system where they are erased automatically.
Months after his death I thought of it. But it was too late. The voice I've known my whole life was gone now.
I have recorded a couple of my conversations with my mother this last few months. It can be tricky because depending on her mood, well, it's not something you really want to record or save, eh?
But I've done it none the less. I just flip on the computer and hit the record button my mp3 recorder system, straight from the phone. I never tell her. I am not trying to impress her or something, and if she knew most likely she would feel very self conscious speaking. I'm not doing it for the content really anyway, although I do wish I had recorded her the day she called and told me the story of her buying the Harris' house... But at that time I had not thought of the idea. Perhaps that was the conversation that awakened my mind to the idea of recording her voice.
I suppose somewhere in the world there are recordings of my father's voice. I don't really know.
My present time conversations with him, of which there have been only a few these last months, are not really the same thing. I can hear him in my head, but not out here in the "real" world. I can still feel him, and every once in a while when he pulls a prank on me he accomplishes getting a laugh out of me.
But it's still not the same. I cannot send him packages. I cannot shop for his favorite something, package it up and send it off anticipating his enjoyment of it. Of course, he wouldn't like candied ginger with chocolate anyhow I'm pretty sure... And I don't know how I would mail him wasabe mashed potatoes! So it's probably just as well.
I watch the world so full of life all around me. The gardens are in glorious amazing bloom. The lavenders are so full of blossoms they are bending their heads, and the air is full of hummingbirds and bees. Soon the baby quail will be scooting around behind their parents and learning all about the fine art of entrancing the human into filling the feeders and spreading the cracked corn on the hillside.
I try to imagine what it will be like after I myself have gone. It will all still be here. I remember as a child trying so hard to imagine how it was before I arrived. It seemed impossible. I could not imagine in the other direction at that time. It never even came in to my mind as a possibility that some day I would remain after my parents were gone. I don't think I even contemplated such a thing until I was close to 20 years old.
"Everything is on its way somewhere" is the line from the movie Phenomenon I love so much. Indeed. Sometimes it seems as if we are all out on the platform, and waiting for that train.
A friend sent me a picture of her newborn son last week. His world is just beginning here. You can see it all in his eyes. He is so open and content. Deeply present.
How much of life goes by before we notice it is going?
It is very strange living with death as something that is just "waiting to happen", with no way to resolve the feelings really, other than to acknowledge and feel them. And move on.
I was listening to her voice on my voicemail. She had left a message one day when we were not home. Short, nothing "big" just a message. And thinking of the many messages I had received over the years from my father. Especially that last year when we spoke fairly often, weekly, or more... it never occurred to me to save the recordings, or put them on the computer or... do something, whatever it is you might do, before they hit that built in time line in the telephone company voicemail system where they are erased automatically.
Months after his death I thought of it. But it was too late. The voice I've known my whole life was gone now.
I have recorded a couple of my conversations with my mother this last few months. It can be tricky because depending on her mood, well, it's not something you really want to record or save, eh?
But I've done it none the less. I just flip on the computer and hit the record button my mp3 recorder system, straight from the phone. I never tell her. I am not trying to impress her or something, and if she knew most likely she would feel very self conscious speaking. I'm not doing it for the content really anyway, although I do wish I had recorded her the day she called and told me the story of her buying the Harris' house... But at that time I had not thought of the idea. Perhaps that was the conversation that awakened my mind to the idea of recording her voice.
I suppose somewhere in the world there are recordings of my father's voice. I don't really know.
My present time conversations with him, of which there have been only a few these last months, are not really the same thing. I can hear him in my head, but not out here in the "real" world. I can still feel him, and every once in a while when he pulls a prank on me he accomplishes getting a laugh out of me.
But it's still not the same. I cannot send him packages. I cannot shop for his favorite something, package it up and send it off anticipating his enjoyment of it. Of course, he wouldn't like candied ginger with chocolate anyhow I'm pretty sure... And I don't know how I would mail him wasabe mashed potatoes! So it's probably just as well.
I watch the world so full of life all around me. The gardens are in glorious amazing bloom. The lavenders are so full of blossoms they are bending their heads, and the air is full of hummingbirds and bees. Soon the baby quail will be scooting around behind their parents and learning all about the fine art of entrancing the human into filling the feeders and spreading the cracked corn on the hillside.
I try to imagine what it will be like after I myself have gone. It will all still be here. I remember as a child trying so hard to imagine how it was before I arrived. It seemed impossible. I could not imagine in the other direction at that time. It never even came in to my mind as a possibility that some day I would remain after my parents were gone. I don't think I even contemplated such a thing until I was close to 20 years old.
"Everything is on its way somewhere" is the line from the movie Phenomenon I love so much. Indeed. Sometimes it seems as if we are all out on the platform, and waiting for that train.
A friend sent me a picture of her newborn son last week. His world is just beginning here. You can see it all in his eyes. He is so open and content. Deeply present.
How much of life goes by before we notice it is going?
posted by becky burke mundt at 12:02 PM
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