The Priory Lit. Mag

by Lauren Schilling

My mother used to have the most beautiful voice. I remember her tucking me into bed as a little girl. I remember how she used to pull the sheets tight around me. The way her weight, as she sat on the edge of my bed, created a slope, pulling me closer to her as if like the sun, her gravity pulled me in and I was helplessly left revolving around her. And I remember the songs she used to sing. Her voice was the most melodious voice I had ever heard. As she sang, my mind would clear, my problems would be forgotten and as the song progressed, I could feel my mind floating into forever. Yes, escaping into my mother's voice was heaven. No matter what she sang, no matter what notes escaped her mouth, mother's voice was perfection.

Until one day, it wasn't. I was growing up. Making mistakes that big girls shouldn't. Instead of in song, my mother's voice only swooped and soared when I did something wrong. When my mother yelled, my mother's voice became the most dreaded noise of all. Gone were the days when I could crawl inside her arms, into the safety of her soothing words. I was on my own. My problems were mine to solve. I began to resent that voice. The way it was constantly played as background music in my life, interrupting moments of tranquility with harsh tones. Jarringly tearing into my thoughts. I hated how that voice would move me to tears with one inflection and how the other inflections, which could make all my problems dissipate, had seemed to be banished from her vocabulary.

But that was all a very long time ago. Now I seldom hear her voice. Instead I rely upon a cheap imitation. A tinny replica that creeps its way through the phone line. The voice that had once boomed with life and song now sounded weak and helpless. Rather than offering words of wisdom, firm in their conviction, confident in their message, cryptic sighs and mumbles were instead released, each laced with its own secret. Secret frustration at not being able to form the word. Secret desires of what she wishes me to understand. Worst of all, is the secret fear of the progression of this disease, this monster that traps her inside her own body, captive within her mind. This Parkinsons, which will soon claim her in its entirety. Now I am the one who must take care of my mother. Must look after her. She now seeks my voice for comfort.

But I have none to offer. No longer can I stand her apparent feeble mindedness, though I know better. No longer can I care for my mother as if she were a child. No longer can I deal with this burden. No, instead I will send her to a better place. A place where they employ people to mother the elderly. Assuring her from a distance is doable. This I can do.

She sits in her room, a place that is not really her room, in a building that is not her home, replaying those days over and over in her head. Those days when mother knew best. My mother sits there, replaying her voice over and over in her head, praying that one day, the words will come.

Yes, my mother used to have the most beautiful voice, but as the ashes slip from my fingers, I know now that I am the only one who can hear it.