Talking to Mother

"Talk a me Mammy, talk a me...." I would cry, and she would.

Amidst the business of mothering, the shopping, cleaning, cooking, baby bearing , baby rearing treadmill of a Mother's life, my Mam would talk to me.

Over the years the talking changed. Encouragement. Admonishment. Praise and blame. But it never stopped.

One particular conversation, as we trudged from Wardenstown to Raharney through snow that topped my wellington's and hid road from field, held a special place. I can no longer remember what we talk about, but I remember the joy my little ten year old's heart felt at having her to myself. A grown up's conversation in a magical landscape of white. Its tracks visible decades after the Spring's melting.

Another time. In a quiet kitchen as I savoured the warm smell of the hot iron on freshly washed cotton, she slowly started to speak about the past. A great opening of the family safe of secrets and hidden hurts. History bequeathed as a coming of age present. Time stood still until the clamour of friends at the door dragged me to the noisy mayhem of flashing lights and pounding rhythms. Yet something of me stayed in that kitchen, and never left.

Over the years the talking changed. Testing. Sensing. Tone becoming more important than words.

"Did you know so and so?" she would ask , and I would test her with a blasphemous declaration that I had clearly left it too late to "know so and so". I often thought that we talked like modems. A noisy , senseless clatter of words exchanged until a connection was made, but once the connection was made there wasn't really any need for words. For a long time after she was gone, my hand would dial her number and hurriedly hang up as I remembered that the clatter of my words would find no echo.

It shocked me when she mastered the art of hiding her pain. When I realised that the tone poem of our small talk could no longer be relied upon to tell me when she was upset or unwell. That changed too. When she no longer had the strength to hide the gathering darkness.

In those final days, there was a lot of talk. With spare breath, she greeted speechless neighbours and red eyed friends. Confounded them with teasing talk of football and gratitude for their presence. Confounded us with her resilience in that magnolia painted Gethsemane.

After she was gone. I cried with my sister, realising that it had troubled me that she had not had anything in particular to say to me at the end. No profound final words to hold onto in my sadness.

"Maybe", my sister said, with kind eyes that were part of her inheritance and freshly washed with fountains of her own greater sorrow, "it was because she knew that she had already said all she needed to say to you in all of those conversations over the years".

"Talk a me Mammy" I would ask. And she would.

I miss her.