Lullaby and Goodnight (revised 3-22)

Lullaby and Goodnight 9 years old

I was laying in my bed with my Spring green and white checked bedspread with matching canopy swathing me. Even with this birthday bedset present from my parents surrounding me, that night I felt a bit scared for some reason. Then Mom came in. She glided across the room, always graceful. She sat down beside me and reached her slender hand out to place on mine. Opening her lovely mouth, she effortlessly sang to me, her voice sweet and rich like brown sugar – once again – “Lullaby, and good night…” After the song she stood, smiled, told me she loved me, walked to the door to turn the light out and said, “Good night, Irene!” Other nights she sang Amazing Grace. Sometimes she said, “Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

Every night she was there.

This was my model for how to tuck my son in, and what to do for him his whole childhood at bedtime. I sang Amazing Grace to him so many nights when he was young that I couldn’t count them. When he was about six, one night after I finished singing he asked, “Mom, what’s a ‘branch like me’?” One of my favorite memories.

Later I would sing that same song back to my mom in a tragic yet miraculous moment.

She told me a story again and again whenever I was upset with a friend. She was at school, maybe first grade. She was pushing her friend on a swing. The friend was angry – about what I forget. She kept telling my mom she hated her. The friend would yell, “I hate you.” And my mom would respond, “Well, I love you.” She tells me that just because someone says somethiing hurtful to me is no excuse not to love them or to act hurtful myself. When I say that what the friend did to me was worse than what I did back, she says, “You can always find someone worse than you are. That’s no excuse to do wrong.” When people tell me how they are so glad they told someone off or how justified they are because someone else did something wrong, I tell them what Mom taught me. I don’t always follow it perfectly, but I know I should.

I think a myth about homeless people, or alcoholics, is that they or we have always been defective. It's easy to dismiss these people as not even comprehending the things others do. It's easy to count them as out; as not even counting as real people like when we walk by someone on the street who is talking to himself and is not wearing clean clothes, perhaps. My mom was real. She taught me love and tenderness, how to be affectionate, how to be a better person and a bigger person than others. Yes, she hurt me, too. I don't know a parent who doesn't hurt their kid. I have hurt mine. I still count. So did she. So do they.

Deer Park Cremation Part 2

Joe, my boyfriend, and I had decided that it would be easier on Zachary, my son, if he didn’t have to go into the ultra formal and grave room to discuss the details of what to do with Mom’s remains. Since he was young, he also needed someone to stay with him, and that meant Joe couldn’t be with me.

So there I was. Me and the man. He sat down at the huge oak desk across from me, looked down at the paperwork, took a quick breath in, then looked up with an apologetic smile.

“We’re so sorry for your loss. We at Deer Park Funeral Home are here to make the transition as peaceful as possible and to help you honor your loved one as you wish.”

I was impressed. It sounded lovely, and a lot better than how things went down when the Hospice lady just straight up asked for my credit card number because Mom was dead now and she needed to be moved. I guess I had sort of expected similar treatment here. This was a pleasant departure, so to speak.

I began to feel a bit better, not quite so numb. A tiny little perk of something like warmth.

Then came the questions.

How old was your mother at her time of death? Did she have any siblings? By whom is she survived? What was her father’s name?

Each one of these seemingly harmless questions was an onslaught of the brokenness that was our family. I wasn’t sure how old mom was. I didn’t have her license to get her birth year and we certainly hadn’t been having a lot of mother- daughter discussions about what it was like to be her age, or birthday parties to celebrate milestones or anything. We were just glad when there was no call from the hospital. I did later realize that she had been 53 upon the time of her death.
My mom had siblings, yes. Her baby brother had died in an alcohol-related car accident when she was fourteen. Her other brothers suffered from alcoholism badly, and one had died. The other died a few years later. None of them saw 60. Her sister was married to a man that I hoped never to see again for what he had done in our lives, and she stayed married to him.

So, even though she was survived by some of them and us, I didn’t have a lot I wanted to say about that. I was pretty sure I knew my Granny’s full name, but I sure did not now my momma’s daddy’s name. I knew everyone called him “Red,” partially because he had red hair. I’m sure he also had a red face, as he had died from a heart attack when my mom was only ten. Although there is no proof, I’m sure alcohol played a role.

My mind tried to recover from the buckshot questions that had fired holes through it. I was still reeling when the funeral home man must’ve had smpathy given my near- catatonic state and useless answers, “Um, they called him Red. Uh.” He put his pen down and mercifully stopped the questioning.

He shifted into low gear and began to explain the process of cremation. Learning about the tangible finality that my mom could now have was nothing short of a blessing.

Don't Know Why cont'd and Deer Park Cremation Pt 1

I screamed when I saw the blood streak the windshield. The little bird hit hard and right in my line of sight, right in front of my eyes.

Bits of feather and guts stuck there, mercilessly.

Something in me broke, and I cried. I had been wrapped in a blanket, sort of keeping it together, staying calm, singing a song as we drove along the highway to Houston, to what was left of my mom.

Deer Park Cremation – part 1

Pasadena in any state is not the most desired area. Drive the gray highway out around the power plants and smokestacks to Pasadena, Texas and Deer Park Funeral Home is smack in its heart. Here, due to the pollution and the city lights, the stars are neither big nor bright at night. The day is a muggy, overcast haze oppressing miles of concrete.

The funeral home was a modest but clean and well-kept building sitting more or less solo on a slab of concrete foundation. We opened the doors of the car and let in the sweltering heat of the day, then dragged up to the building. My boyfriend swung open the glass door for us and my son and I entered the cool air conditioning.

For what I could afford at the time, I thought it was pretty nice. Nothing too gauche, or falling apart. I’d take it.

I sat on the edge of my chair alone in the room that was big enough for whole families to gather in. It seemed like I should try to behave like a lady, maybe like Sally Field in that movie where she tries to sell her cotton. That seemed like a good act to follow since my would-be role model was the very person I was sitting there to honor. I was broken hearted and numb. And alone.

I stared at the dark green carpet, wondering who had chosen that color. Maybe it had been on sale. It looked like they had splurged for the desk. Finally a man came in. He was slightly rotund with a kind face. Not wearing a suit. But then I wasn’t wearing gloves like Sally Field. Maybe this was an ok concession on each of our parts.

These details comforted me. Small distractions and small pieces of hope were what I clung to in this dismal place.

I Don't Know Why (part 3)

I sat in the car after the phone went dead.I suppose I was praying, but mostly just being still and breathing in an attempt not to fly apart.

I turned the key. Started the car. Drove on home.

The drive home is a blur, as well as exactly what happened in the next few hours. What I do remember vividly however, is getting up early the next morning - Friday - and leaving for Houston.

It was a strange feeling, not rushing down to Houston. And I hadn't rushed to leave work either. I had tried to slow down and decide what I needed to do. Part of me felt guilty and I suppose still does about that.

My boyfriend, Joe, at the time was quite wonderful about it all. He agreed to drive me and my son in his car so that I didn't have to.

He got us both blankets from the house to wrap up in in. I know it was hot, but I was shaking nonetheless, so it was a huge comfort.

The huge Norah Jones debut album had just come out and I had it because I thought a couple of songs sounded very nice. Now one in particular will forever be the music for my mom's funeral for me, for lack of a better word.

The power of the instrumentals grabbed me first. Then the lyrics:

I waited 'til I saw the sun
I don't know why I didn't come
I left you by the house of fun
I don't know why I didn't come
I don't know why I didn't come

When I saw the break of day
I wished that I could fly away
Instead of kneeling in the sand
Catching teardrops in my hand


First we listened to the song many times, then all at once I sang along. I sang with my whole self, and felt the healing.