All is Calm, All is Bright

This column was originally published by Profile Kingston in December 1999.

On the morning of my seventh birthday in October 1961, I walked up the hall from my bedroom to my Mom's. As I approached, I saw a tin of cookies sitting outside her door, as I got closer I saw they were our whole family's favourite. The ones with candied drawings of animals on them. I had known she wasn't well and was away a lot, but now she was at home and I thought that everything would be the way it always was.

Three weeks later, while we were having breakfast, my Dad walked into the kitchen. He told us in a quiet voice that our Mother had passed away during the night. I remember the moment after he told us, the room, for that matter, the whole world fell silent. Then, just as quickly, everyone started to cry.

The funeral was held on October 31. As in many country communities, the service was held at our house. I remember all the tears that were shed. Most of all I remember my Uncle Doug, my mother's younger brother. He always had a joke or a smile for every niece and nephew. To this day he still does.

My Dad came into my room one night, he asked me if I was OK. I thought I was. But I asked him where my Mommy was. He told me that she had died and had gone away. “Forever?” I asked. “Yes son, forever.” “Where did she go?” I asked. He picked me up out of my bed and carried me over to the window of my bedroom. “Can you see the stars out there?” He asked me. “Yes,” I said. My father said, “Your Mommy is up there now, she's a star, always shining, always watching over you at night, and she'll be with you forever.” I asked is that where you go when you die. He said, yes. But I must have driven my dad crazy asking him to point out the same star every night. To an adult they all look the same; to a child they're all different.

I have reached a critical stage of my adulthood. I think more of the effect my death would have on my three children than I think of dying itself. My youngest child Catherine is a little older than I was when my mother died. I look at all my kids and wonder how I would feel if I had to leave right now. I see the promise in their eyes, I see myself reflected in their enthusiastic response to life. I want so much to be a part of that life, to watch them grow older, to help them when they make a mistake, to be there when they need me. I think of my mother. I imagine her feelings when she realized she would not see her children grow older. I imagine her helplessness when she realized she would never hold her grandchildren, never to see her own features reflected in yet another generation.

Our oldest child, John is an astute boy, very inquisitive, but he has a very difficult concept to absorb; in fact all our kids do. I remember when he was about three years old and he first became aware of a picture of my Mother, he asked me, 'Who's that, Daddy?' I told him it was my Mommy, his Granny. He looked at me and said in a kind of scolding child’s voice, 'No, no, no, that's not my Granny. My Granny's in Ottawa.'

On a cold afternoon, we all stood by her gravestone. Each child carried a single chrysanthemum to leave for their Granny, the one they never knew. Together, we brushed off the leaves that littered the surface of her grave stone and by doing so revealed the epitaph that we chose to remember her by. Just from seeing the lyric of "Silent Night", I was flooded with memories of how Christmas Eve was with my Mom. All of us singing, dressed to the nines, so Dad could get us on film. Mom in her red Christmas dress, leading us on. At that moment, I heard quite clearly, the full-bodied sound of the piano and the somewhat off kilter singing of the rest of the family gathered around it, 'Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.'

You're right guys, it says, 'sleep in heavenly peace', it's from her favourite carol. She's like all of you, she loved Christmas too. John, turned and saw a tear roll down my cheek and as he grasped my hand with concern, he asked me if I was OK. Full circle, I thought: first my father was concerned and now my son is. I smiled at him and said, “Yes, son, I am fine. I was just remembering.

Merry Christmas, Mom.
We love you.