I’m not sure how to begin this post. I can tell you that this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write, but I think I finally need to do so.
The stuff about Biden’s loss is part of why I wrote this, but it’s a minor part of my motivation. I apologize to anyone who doesn’t want to read about personal issues, but, well, part of this platform is mine, and this is what I want to talk about today.
I’ll start like this: I can sing. Pretty well, so I’ve heard. But I don’t do much singing anymore.
Six years ago this week, my mother died. She’d been sick for a long, awful time. But she was just too tough and too stubborn to give up. So she fought a losing battle for over three years. And it was a hell of a thing to see the terrible, terrible toll it exacted. I took care of her during those horrible years. All I can say about that experience is this: Whatever godawful, rotten fucking things I’ve done in this life have been more than atoned for.
While she was dying, she asked me to sing for her.
Sounds corny, I know. Well, it gets worse.
My whole life, I called my mother “Mom.”
Until the singing. I don’t know why, but I could tell that it made her happier if I called her “Mama.” So that’s what I switched to.
My mother was a sincerely, deeply religious person. I know it hurt her that I never gave a shit about church, but I just couldn’t fake it. However, because she wanted to raise me right, I did go to church a lot when I was a little kid. And I learned the songs. My mom loved those songs. Now, I don’t believe in the promises made in any of those songs. But they can have some beautiful images. Stories of redemption, forgiveness, and rest. A land that is fairer than day. Someone to take up your burden when it’s too heavy to bear. A home where joys will never end. Any fool could see the appeal in that. So, while she was sick, after I got done with classes and work, I’d sit by her bed, where she spent most of her time. And she’d ask me to sing. My mother had a sweet drawl in her voice. I can almost hear her talking still.
“Son, sing me ‘When the Roll Is Called up Yonder.'”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Please sing me ‘I’ll Fly Away.'”
“Do you think you could sing me ‘Angel Band?'”
And here’s where the tears would start. “Yes, Mama.”
“Son, could you sing some more? I just want a few more. I know you’re tired. But I wanna hear ‘Just a Closer Walk with Thee.'”
I’d be choking at this point. “That’s one of my favorites, Mama.”
“That’s beautiful, son. Could you sing me ‘Precious Lord?'”
“Of course I can, Mama. Just give me a minute. I need to get a drink of water”
“Son, you know my favorite. Sing me my favorite, and then I’ll go to sleep for a while. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll always sing this one for you, Mama. Good night.”
And then she’d fall asleep. And I’d stumble out of the room, trying to find the doorknob, blinking through the tears.
For some reason, I just can’t bring myself to sing much anymore.
I still miss you, Mama. I wish I could’ve done more.