A train whistle woke me the other night. We can hear the trains coming through more clearly when our small town has gone to bed. The melancholy calling of the whistle brought to mind the recent passing of my uncle, and his trip on the Glory Train. In the weeks preceding his death, he would tell his family that he had a ticket, bought and paid for, on the Glory Train. After months of illness and suffering from the cancer that had ravaged his body, his daughter sat at his bedside. When they heard the train whistle, she gently reminded him that he had his ticket, and it was time to get on the Glory Train. Soon after, he boarded that train for his last journey.
This episode reminded me of other goodbyes. As is true for us all, the older I get, the more of them I have to remember. I have become a collector of memories and mementos, of sights and smells, all of which I carry about in my mind and in my life as a living memorial of those who have gone on. I can still have a few things about me that my loved ones used and loved, even if I can no longer have them with me.
My mother often made biscuits in a green milk glass mixing bowl, with a handle on the side and a notch for pouring. I can picture her strong hands tossing in the ingredients in short order, mixing with a few powerful strokes, and ladling the batter onto the floured counter for kneading. Perfect biscuits every time, and a beautiful illustration of her nurturing love. The beloved green bowl sits in my kitchen, and when I use it, I remember her. When she died, love was literally the last word on her lips. She breathed the word over and over, until she had no more breath. To her, it was the most important thing to say. And to me, how she lived is as important as how she died.
Daddy had a different lesson to teach. He lived a contentious, turbulent life, with his dreams always just out of reach. They were grand dreams, too. He was a man of ideas, but for him, reality and hope never reconciled. He was opinionated, obstinate, and ornery. In the years after Mother died, and without her as his saving grace, he alienated almost everyone who had been close to him. Even his articulate and piercing intelligence could not save him from himself.
When I went down to care for him during his last illness, I found a changed man. Redemption came with the realization of his own mortality. He let the walls down and let us in. He gave up his pride and his need to be right, and we, just as we were, loved him, just as he was. He asked for potato soup, like Mother used to make. It had been years, but I made as close a facsimile to Mother’s version as I could, and we sat and ate it together.
Later, when my siblings gathered in and we shared his care, we resorted to waving a bottle of peppermint oil under his nose to ease the waves of nausea that would come over him. The clean, refreshing scent of peppermint still recalls the poignancy of those last days with him. Daddy taught me that a death with dignity and honesty can heal a lifetime of anger and hurt.
Now, as I move into the midday of my life, it is time for me to live my lessons learned, to heal every hurt as I can, and to love with a free and generous spirit.
© 2024 Joyce Martin. All rights reserved
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