The Last Ride

In the days leading up to my Mother’s inurnment at National Cemetary, Daddy showed me and Pat the urn in which her remains were sealed, and the box in which the urn was delivered - it was a beautiful, elegant presentation.  Inside of an enormous (and heavy) box with the marble-look top was the (mahogany, I think, but I wouldn’t swear to it) urn with Mama’s name and life dates engraved in white script, and next to it was a picture frame for a photo of your loved one and a box of thank you notes to send to the people who attended the service.  The box sat in the dining room on top of the sideboard, and each time I passed by, I would touch it and and say “Hi, Mommy.”  

One day, Pat and I found ourselves alone in the Mosher family homestead, so I took the urn out of the box and held it in my arms.   Pat saw me and came to hold me, as I cradled what was left of my Mother in a moment of private farewell.  Together, we three were one, for a mere matter of minutes, as many tears were shed, and then the urn had to go back into the box and the day had to go on.

On the day of the service and inurnment, before the family left the house, I encouraged members of the family to have a private goodbye with Grandmother (there were a lot of grandchildren, and when the grandchildren outnumber the grownups, Mama was always called Grandmother) and it was satisfying to see those who chose to spend their private last moment with Juana.  I especially loved seeing my cousin, my father’s best friend for my entire life, and a woman devoted to my Mam, take hold of the urn for what might have been a moment of prayer or a simple exchange of energy.  After that, though, it was time to go, and all the family members piled into each car that would carry us in the Texas rain to the cemetery, and Daddy said, walking out the back door, “Don’t forget Mommy.”  Well, at that moment, Pat was holding the urn. The family was out of the house, getting into their cars.  It looked like Mama would be riding with us.

As I drove the unbearable journey from the house that Mama called home since 1983, listening to my brother and nieces chat with each other in the back seat, Pat beside me silently cradling Mama in his arms, I reached my right hand out and placed it down flat on top of the smooth wooden surface, intent on touching my Mother for as long as I could, while i still could.  And then, quietly, just to myself, I began to sing one of Mama’s favorite songs, one that she sang all the time when we would clean house together in Spiegel, Switzerland, the sun streaming in through the white fishnet curtains of the living room.  Almost in a whisper…

“The sun’ll come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow there’ll be sun.   Just thinking about tomorrow clears away the cobwebs and the sorrow ‘til there’s none.”  (She loved the arrangement from the Barbra Streisand album Songbird, so that is the version I, so quietly, sang, one hand on the urn, the other on the wheel).  When I had finished my quiet serenade, I went on.

“When I was a little boy and the devil would call me name, I’d say now who do, who do you think you’re foolin’?” because I was six years old when Mama would sing the Paul Simon song Loves Me Like a Rock to me.  It was the exact same age that I was when she would sing

“I can’t get no Satisfaction.  I can’t get no Satisfaction.  ‘Cause I try, and I try, and I try, and I try.  I can’t get no.  I can’t get no.”  So I sang that song next.

Somewhere during this private front seat concert for Juana, Pat began singing along, our voices never growing stronger or louder than a tearful whisper for, by this point, tears were flowing in a steady stream down my face as we sang all of the songs Mama played on the record player when I was growing up, during the formative years that were my youth.

“All the leaves are brown and the sky is gray, I’ve been for a walk on a winter’s day…”

“I feel the earth move under my feet, I feel the sky tumblin’ down, I feel my heart start to tremblin’ whenever you’re around…”

“Dance in the old fashioned way, let me stay in your arms.  Just melt against my skin and let me feel your heart, don’t let the music win by dancing far apart.”

“You walked into the party like you were walkin’ onto a yacht, your hat strategically dipped below one eye, your scarf, it was apricot…”

“I am woman hear me roar in numbers too big to ignore and I know too much to go back and pretend.”

We drove in relative silence, as the young people (well, youngER people) in the seat behind us caught up with one another, singing with Mommy.  It was the most precious moment in my life, one that will live inside of me forever, and it would never have happened if Pat hadn’t been holding the urn when Daddy said, “Don’t forget Mommy.”

The system at the National Cemetery is very well orchestrated.  There are four lanes of cars and you are told which lane to get into to make the processional for your party.  You are assigned a time for your ceremony.  Me Father being the man that he is, we were forty-five minutes early for the 11 am service (thirty minutes early for our assigned arrival time of 10:45), and it was raining, and I had had a pot of tea for breakfast, so, naturally, I had to get out of my car in lane four and approach the car in front of ours to ask Daddy, his window sliding down electronically, where the restrooms are at the National Cemetery.  He pointed in the direction of the main building, and before I went to urinate, I told his car full of people that Pat and I had been singing all of Mama’s favorite songs during the drive.  I thought that would be the end of it but, minutes later, having done what I got out of my car to do and returned to the warmth and dryness, I found my phone buzzing with a text.  It was from my niece, in my Father’s car.

“Can sera”

I replied:  “I think your autocorrect got you.”

“You guys can sing that song.  Grandma and I like that one.  Que Sera Sera.”

“On it!”

So Pat and I sang the Doris Day classic in honor of Mama and her Granddaughter and a private practice they shared.  And, as the minutes ticked away to eleven, I held that box ever closer to my heart, buried my face into the bag that would carry it to the next leg of her journey, and gave her two more songs that she sang to me when I was a little boy.

“Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey, won’t you come home.  I’m home the whole day long…”  This is not, I would learn as an adult, the lyric, but it is the lyric My Mam sang to me, and it is the lyric I will sing, until it is my turn to go in the box.  And, finally, the last song for Juana.

“You are my sunshine my only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray, you’ll never know dear how much I love you.  Please don’t take my sunshine away.”

I am the son of Juana Mosher.  I am the son of John Mosher.  It is not possible for my sunshine to be taken away - they taught me to persevere, they taught me choose hope, they taught me to fight - that is what I know how to do.  They sun is not, and will never again be, as bright as it once was, but it can never be taken away, just as Juana can never be taken away from any of us who knew and loved her.  

That last ride with Mama was an unexpected gift from the universe and don’t think I don’t know it.  It has given me the gratitude and the grit to wake, every morning, walk into the darkened kitchen to make my tea, look up at the portrait of Juana hanging there and say, “Good morning, Mama.  I love you,” and, then, to step out into the center of Forty-Ninth Street and walk up the middle of the road to work, my chin raised, my eyes on the sky, my face adorned with a smile, ready to live my life to the fullest extent that I can, just like my first best friend in life did for herself and her family, just like she taught me.

The time is now.