Echo of a Requiem

To say my mother enjoyed music would be an understatement. She loved everything from Gregorian chant to opera and musicals. If there was a church choir, my mother was there, participating, directing, and living each song through every note she sang. Her love of anything musical spilled over into our home. In spite of myself, I was exposed to many evenings of music, whether it was choir practice, a musical on television or time spent at a symphony. Unfortunately, I was unappreciative a lot of the time and only went along because I was underage and had no choice!

All my growing up years, my mother’s sweet, high soprano accompanied her daily tasks. I don’t think she even knew she was singing or humming. I silently rebelled during my teens and am guilty of turning up my radio to tune out my mother’s songs. I often wished she would just stop, if only for a day or two.

Over the years, my mother suffered several small but destructive strokes. They were silently impairing her ability to deal with day-to-day life. She was in a home for about four of those years and I watched my determined, witty, fun-loving mother become confused and scared. The music stopped although it was a couple of years before I realized it was gone.

My mother died in 1997 around three o’clock on a Friday afternoon in Lent. I gave thanks to God that she was through with her last sufferings. I also thanked God that my husband, children and I had an hour with her late in the evening the night before she passed away. She had not been very responsive the last couple of weeks, however, when we walked into the room and she heard my voice and that of my husband, she struggled mightily to sit up and say something. I think she was saying good-bye. We sat on either side of her bed for that hour. We said aloud the prayers she could no longer utter. We made sure she had a Scapular and St. Benedict medal for her final time here on earth. I cried because I knew I could have been a much better daughter and now it was too late to give her earthly comfort and attention. I wept because I knew the music would be gone when she left the world.

When I got the news of her passing, a friend told me I could still be close to her, souls could talk to souls, especially ones that had loved each other so much. As I wandered aimlessly around the house, trying to absorb the loss, I saw my choir music. I knew I would be singing in the Latin Mass choir on Palm Sunday. I realized with fresh tears that my mother’s music hadn’t stopped, it was merely time for her to pass it on.