For many times over those months, words weren't able to pass my lips without sobbing, or "ugly crying," so I would just write... I left my Ma a daily message, but in a journal. My words, accompanied by quieter tears, expressed what, in months earlier, used to be said in a phone call. In reading this document now, I see all stages of grief. On paper.
I still call the house periodically to listen to her voice. I even tell Baby Jimmy, "Shh... listen to GeeGee". And then I hang up, or just whisper my love yous. I am certain my Dad has seen my name pop up on the caller ID throughout times of day he knows I know he isn't home...but he has never said anything. I'm sure he knows what I am doing.
Today is the third birthday we are honoring my Ma's beautiful life, without her sitting across the table from us saying, "Don't you tell that waiter that it's my birthday!" So, I called to "Leave my message" at a time where I knew my Dad would be at the cemetery leaving her birthday flowers; some traditions we will never let go. After the fourth ring, I hear an unfamiliar, cold greeting....BEEEEEP.
I called again. Just to be sure. BEEEEEP. And then it dawned on me: Baby Jimmy was playing with the phone the other day and must have erased the outgoing greeting. My heart sunk and I got one of those hard, heat-filled lumps in my throat. The voicemail greeting is gone. She is gone. And it's her birthday. How can I ever tell my Dad? He will be heartbroken. I am heartbroken.
And then I remembered, I had panicked once when Dad was having work done on his phones and I had family members call and record it, so I would have it forever. It's something, but definitely not as comforting as knowing I could still call the house and it would be like Ma was still there, like she always was, listening to what I had to say.
So here goes.
"Hi, leave a message..."
Hi Ma, Happy Birthday. I love you. More. I miss you so much it makes my chest physically ache sometimes. Well, all the time, but I've learned to live with it. I've got that bullshit eye infection again, so I'm stuck wearing glasses, can you believe it? I'm probably not drinking enough water, but I'm finally getting enough sleep. I made the broccoli stuffing for Christmas dinner, but it didn't taste as good as yours. I'm doing my best in taking care of everyone, Dad especially. You would be so proud of him - he goes to Carter's and picks out clothes for the babies and they're perfect. The right sizes and everything. It's almost like you are there with him, helping him shop. He is so generous, as you were. Jim is good, too. He is now on the day shift and doing the ET work you found so interesting to hear about. He takes care of all of us, too, and for the first time, I really think maybe in his whole life, think he is really, really happy. And the babies? Well, Jimmy told me yesterday, "Mommy, I love you, more," and I just about melted. Keep in mind, though, it was after I handed him a large order of French Fries. He talks to your picture and points upwards to Heaven when I ask him where you are. He is so so smart... Has a photographic memory, knows all his letters and sounds, and loves M & M's, like you. And our Maddy, Madelyn Marjorie, the other miracle baby... Ma, she is something. Quite the rascal, but she has a smile that will make you stop whatever it is you're doing to soak in the joy life brings. She is strong; she is tough. She is very much like you. Mads is crawling, standing, and soon will be walking, although I am sure it will be more like running, after her brother, whom she adores. Time to go, naps are over. I know what you're thinking... "You're so lucky your kids are good nappers, you were not a good napper..." Yah, Ma, I know. I think about that every naptime when I have a few minutes to myself to think about life...and you...and miss you. More.
