In my life and in my art I want to make other voices heard, to embolden the voices within myself and others that have too often been ignored or eroded by others who are better at yelling. This passion for quiet is partially because I grew up as the overly anxious, shy girl in class, and partially because two years after my mother's death, I am still straining to hear her voice and I hear only faint echoes of silence. I feel my mother did not make an effort to be heard.
Before her death, she barely flinched at the discomforts of illnesses. She swallowed pain down so well—along with her daily caplets of medicine and regular injections of HUMIRA—that not many people knew she was afflicted by Crohn's Disease since her late teens.
I can't claim to know the extent of her symptoms, because she always told my sister and I that her's were "not as bad as other people's." Though now I wonder if that was just a way to protect us from feeling bad for her or resentful toward God or anyone else that could be blamed for the destructive imperfections of being human.
Or, like my own self-preserving strategies, pushing pain away protected her mind from spiraling into the simple yet ineffective idea of death. Those thoughts still caught up with her when she raged about not getting enough help around the house or how oblivious we all were about taking care of ourselves.
"You'll all find out when I die first." "When I'm dead and gone…" "I'm worth more dead than alive…"
She did not shy from blunt statements or the words "dead," "die," or "death." Which is why we interpreted these statements more as angry threats than as foreboding predictions.
But when she texted my sister and me in late summer 2018 about how she had been feeling unwell while traveling with my father, a sharp fear stabbed my throat in much the same place that ached when I cried upon learning of her death two days later.
She had put off complaining about pain her entire life—quietly enduring discomfort so that those around her would feel more comfortable. And I wonder if all those hours of silent suffering stacked atop each other and stole her life away from Earth even more quickly than if she had the energy to stand up to it and make one last effort to stay here with us.
I try to make every moment count. And to be okay when I fail. But my mother's early death often taints what could otherwise be blissful moments in my life. Or, when I'm feeling less pessimistic, her death just adds another layer of reverence to them.
For example: I read an article that recommended the poem "Pathways" by Rainer Maria Rilke to be read at a wedding between two people who appreciate traveling. For a second, I could easily imagine that. However, for me it's easier to imagine it as a letter to my mother:
Understand, I’ll slip quietly
away from the noisy crowd
when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.
I’ll pursue solitary pathways
through the pale twilit meadows,
with only this one dream:
You come too.
Last week, Caleb and I attempted to see the Perseid Meteor showers from a hilly park near our house, but it offered too narrow and bright of a view of the sky, and our legs were too tired to bother traveling any further outside our neighborhood. The next night, we drove 20 minutes south to an expansive, grassy hill beside Lake Michigan, parked in a pot-holed gravel lot, and turned our pocket-size flashlights on for the short trek down the path, across the road, and to the top of the hill. Our feet followed the two small spheres of light that bounced in front of us as the ground transitioned from slimy mud puddles beside concrete path to dark green and dewy grass to blacktopped road and finally to the long, yellow grasses of the hillside.
Behind us, a couple of cars whirl down the road and behind the hill to the beachfront where we heard echoes of people talking and laughing. A late-night get-together that continued throughout our time on the hill. A dog's sharp barking and a glass bottle breaking and joyful screaming and the hollow sound of skateboard wheels rolling down the road. And we lean into each other, melting into the darkness of nature.
Understand, I’ll slip quietly
away from the noisy crowd
The crown of the hill is both an escape and a lookout. It feels like we're invisible witnesses to this small section of land. Witnessing only through auditory observation rather than actually seeing anything in particular. It seems like all sounds within a mile ricocheted off the nearby trees and landed on the hilltop to nestle into the soft ground. Or maybe this is just one moment in their journey, and they continue past us, soaring towards the lake and its soft slippery sounds of lapping water and rolling pebbles on the beach.
Though we can still see the blinking lights of a radio tower and hear the rush of cars and motorcycles at the base of the hill and beyond, the immense swath of night sky is what dominates our vantage point. The treelines on the northern horizon are a hulking shadow, backlit by the fading silvery light of a far-away sunset. The stars are tiny white dots, yet we can tell that some are smaller than others. Some are so small, I am almost convinced that there is no darkness in the sky—just further away and weaker points of light.
when I see the pale stars rising, blooming, over the oaks.
I’ll pursue solitary pathways
through the pale twilit meadows,
We squint at the dark sky dotted with stars as if blinded by intense light rather than overwhelmed with the intense lack of light. A streak above the northern horizon. We gasp. I point and realize I am pointing nowhere and everywhere, and at nothing. There is no helping each other see.
Music floats up from the beach, but it sounds like it could be mere feet away. I worry that we are not alone. I'm afraid of being seen without seeing. We shuffle in circles, rotating to see another section of sky. Our necks ache. Another meteor tail, smaller than the first. And then a third a few minutes later. And then nothing for several minutes.
I'm uncomfortable with the in-between. I love this being in love with someone. But the feeling of losing someone is so overwhelming sometimes. Even after losing them, the wound will not close completely. The sick and sad feelings fade ebb and flow, echo in thoughts and words you don't mean to think or say. Like today. A day dedicated to loss.
Still nothing. We're watching the stars glitter, mistake a plane for a meteor. Rubbing our eyes with our knuckles.
The unpredictability of these massive glowing rocks irks me and astounds me. We're making a game out of watching bodies disintegrate. Even though the glow only lasts a second, it is a gorgeous second.
I speak to my mother in my head, and I wonder if it can be called praying, especially if I don't talk to God.
"Please. Tell me you're watching over us still. Show us you're still there. We love you."
Two seconds later the thickest and longest streak of white light of the night appears in front of us. I breathe in sharply. And then another streak appears right next to the first. I exhale and feel filled with love.
with only this one dream:
You come too.
Even when its light leaves our vision, it's nice to imagine the meteor existing elsewhere.
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