Posted by: Ingrid | March 6, 2008

Last night I finally went over to our former landlord’s house to get the couple of saved messages off of their answering machine. If I’d known back in August that it would be just as simple as recording memos onto my phone I wouldn’t have waited half a year to take care of it. 72 seconds. One message from Clint before the wedding. Three messages from my Mom. One message from my Dad. Pathetic in their brevity. “Hi Ingrid, this is Mom, it’s just after 8:00. Maybe I’ll try calling you on your cell phone. Bye.”

But it’s the first time I’d heard her voice in six months. Sometimes I wish I could have dreams like my sister, so vivid that she thinks mom is still alive. I wish I could have something, anything of her. Not letters and pictures and regrets and a few voice mails. I want her in all of her sometimes exasperating mom-ness. Sometimes it all slams into me again. She’s dead. Gone. But she was here last year. She was alive and talking and calling me on the phone. It doesn’t make sense, the fleeting moment between life and death. You are and then you aren’t. Or perhaps it’s more fair to say that you are and then you’re more than you were. But really that doesn’t help much.

I wish I had a message with “I love you” at the end. You can never say that you love someone enough. You never know when you’ll wake up and they’ll be gone.

 

 

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