I just came back from a funeral. The mother of one of my very best friends passed away on Friday. There was a huge turnout which doesn't surprise me in the least. The world is a little less bright today. She was a lovely woman, always quick with a smile and a deep, tight hug. The priest mentioned her method of hugging in the eulogy. Her hugs were legendary. She'd extend her arms well in advance of the embrace as she happily glided toward its recipient.
I'll miss Mrs. D's hugs. I'll miss the way she clutched my cheeks in her hands, looked into my eyes and spoke so warmly to me. She had these great smile lines around her eyes. Those lines were earned. Her eyes were forever crinkled because she wore a persistent smile.
Her voice was like velvet, with a little bit of texture courtesy of a heavy smoking habit she couldn't quite care to quit. Back in the days of forced church attendance, my eyes often glazed over and I'd tune out the first and second readings, the responsorial psalm, the Gospel and the homily. Except on the Sundays when Mrs. D read. Her voice was so soothing and hypnotic. With the exception of the occasional screaming child, no one made a sound or fidgeted when Mrs. D was at the lectern. We'd happily listen to Mrs. D read the phone book.
Mrs. D just ended a very long battle with cancer. My friend knew she didn't have much time left with her beloved mother. She and I talked on the phone about a week before her mother died. We spoke of her mother's strength and her quiet, dignified grace throughout the various ups and downs in her life. My friend listed her mother's many qualities. When I mentioned her mother's renowned speaking voice, she said, "That's what I told my mother recently. I said, 'I'm going to miss your voice.'"
It seems pretty obvious that when someone's gone, of course you won't hear their voice again, except in your memories. But still, her statement struck me. I couldn't quite find my words after that. It made me so sad and afraid. But I saw my friend handling her sadness with the qualities her mother exhibited in life. And, somehow, that made me feel better.
Today, I'm a bit of sniveling mess. The memory of Mrs. D smiling and cradling my face in her hands makes me sad, yet grateful for having closely experienced such a remarkable person. She was rare. She was one of those transformational people. I couldn't be moody in her presence because her demeanor was too infectious. I couldn't complain about my lot in life because her quiet perseverance humbled me without her even saying a word. I became a better, more mindful person by osmosis.
She'd kill me for making such a fuss about her. It just wasn't her style. So, I'll stop now before I really bawl.
Thanks for listening. And thank you, Mrs. D.
Happy Pride!
