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Rosanne Coury,
M.A.E.A., is a Religious Studies teacher. A member of Kappa
Delta Pi, she has been recognized in Who’s Who Among American
High School Teachers and nominated for the Golden Apple Award.
 “Rosanne.
. .” My mother calls me. Her voice echoes through the years,
plucking at my heartstrings like a young Paul Simon coaxing
a ballad from a guitar. Deep within I feel vibrations of meaning
and memory, resonances that bridge space and time. That is the
only way I can hear her now—with that sensitive inner ear.
My mother died of cancer a year ago. And although at the end
she could still speak with her eyes, she had lost the capacity
to use her voice sometime before.
May is the month of mothers. Perhaps I should call it the
Mother of all Months. After all, it is during May that that
Matriarch dubbed “Mother Nature” does her annual
cleaning and redecorating. My ear is attuned to her insistent
humming, a slow crescendo of spring sounds. Birds, insects,
children at outdoor play, and even motorcycles create a bright
seasonal harmony. But this year, as I attend carefully to
spring-song, I hear a different undertone, a counter-melody
perhaps. It recalls the medieval words of Dante: “Consider
your origins. . .” And this year, more than any before,
I am doing just that.
Often I hear my mother’s “young-mom” voice. You
know the one. The laughter and song, the tone associated with
Golden Books and peek-a-boo. Yes, there was the Scolding Voice
and the Mind-Your-Manners Voice. But mostly I remember patience
and calm and a great deal of love.
It was in the midst of one of these “young-mom”
reveries that I suddenly recalled a song Mom sang to me and
my sister when it was time to get ready for bed. My mother
had a lovely alto voice, untrained but beautiful in pitch
and depth. The song was silly, I suppose, but I loved it even
if I hated bedtime:
“Go and use the potty -
Brush your teeth!
Get a glass of water -
Say your prayers!
Get into your bed
And I will tuck you in.
I’ll kiss you and hug you
And pat you on the chin!
Nonsensical? Foolish? Bad rhyme? Yes. It’s true. But in my
sudden reminiscence I realized that, after thirty-odd years
I still knew the tune and all the words. Without effort I
caught the sparkle in Mom’s bright blue eyes. A magical moment.
At fifty-two I had become a three-year-old child again, full
of fun and wonder once again. Can you see me smiling as I
write this? I’m sure you can.
I have also revisited my “mid-life” mom. Vivid
recollections of the mother of my teen years crowd my heart.
In spite of all the usual mom-daughter imbroglios that go
with studies and dating, my clearest memories center on her
pride and encouragement. I could not have been an easy daughter
to raise. Too headstrong. Too ambitious. Too small-minded.
Too much “heart” and not enough “head.”
The kind of daughter who is not bad, but who could certainly
make some poor decisions from time to time! The kind of daughter
a loving mom might well worry about. And as a teen of the
‘70s I had so much more freedom, and so many more prospects
than my mom had had in the ‘50s. It would have been so
easy for mom to let jealousy, control or fear spoil our relationship.
But Mom didn’t do that. She couldn’t always give
me helpful advice, but she tried. She didn’t always understand,
but she wanted to. Even in the worst of times I could always
talk to her. She would always listen to me. In Mom the voice
of love often expressed itself more with the ears than the
tongue.
Later I think of Mom’s consistent presence. She stood
by when I married disastrously for the first time. She was
there when my kids were born. Even though I moved out of state,
she helped me through illnesses, surgeries, financial crises:
so many of painful moments. And when I went through my divorce
she never even hinted at a whispered, “I told you so.”
Wow.
Looking back I realize that while Mom could talk to me, and
often advocated for me, she struggled with her own worth.
She couldn’t easily speak for herself. It took many courageous
years of reflection and work before she discovered and claimed
it for herself. She told me once I had helped her find the
way. I cannot imagine how that could be true. But Mom was
an honest woman. Her words may well be the most meaningful
tribute of my life.
Over time Mom’s vocal cords began to fray. Too much smoking
given up too late in life took its toll. First breast cancer.
Then lung cancer. Finally death. She lived until the end.
In fact, I believe she lived more and more fully as she walked
into that silence. Even when her voice failed, she still spoke
love. A glance; a touch; a small smile. Love declared in its
most simple, universal language.
Mom was not perfect. I know that. But perfection doesn’t
matter. To me she is a beautiful part of my life. A woman
of love and patience, strength and constancy. Flawed, yes.
So am I. That’s OK, too. Mothers can teach us that love makes
imperfection unimportant. In the end, only love, itself, matters
at all.
My window is open. I hear the evening May-song slowly drowse
towards sleep. And in this twilight time I think about my
origins, and I am glad.
Thanks, Mom. Happy Mother’s Day.
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