After my father died, my mother lived alone in that same old red-brick house she had lived in since she was 11. Although he was almost 13 years older than she was she only outlived him by about 5 years.
My wife and I (and the kids) would make a point of seeing her at least twice a year. And for at least ten days each time.
She was never a bother or a burden. I was busy with work or busy with the kids and I’ll confess, I didn’t call her as much as I should have. And she only called me if she had a good reason to call–never to chat.
She wasn’t a “chatter”.
She called me early in the evening of the day she died to tell me she was dying and to ask if I could get down there to be with her. (I was an only child). I told her I’d get there as soon as I could, but she died in the middle of the night.
Today, as I was packing up some of my things in preparation for a move, I came across a crumbled-up piece of paper with her handwriting on it. She had always had a beautful handwriting, but the handwriting on the little slip of paper was shaky now. It had obviously been written after my father died and she was well into her 80’s.
At the top she had written “Tel” and then she wrote her sister’s address and telephone number and that of her two nephews followed my my name and number.
I always thought mine was a confusing phone number. Two many 6’s and 3’s. Even I couldn’t remember the number for the first three weeks I had it.
As I looked at the paper I realized she had transposed two of the last numbers in my phone number.
Now I wonder how many times she might have tried to call me with that wrong number.
She’s been gone for 12 years– and can no longer be reached by telephone.
Friends–if you are fortunate enough to still have a mother or a father, call them up, even if you don’t have anything important to say.
Trust me, they’ll be very happy to hear from you.