The Owls Called

There's a peace that comes in the early morning light, and a peace that follows in the stillness of the night.

Mama’s sunroom smells like a flower shop. Bouquets of roses in every color rise up from fancy vases and baskets. A vase of purple and white tulips nestles between them, and a large arrangement of white lilies, carnations, dahlias and snapdragons fans out in the bay window. The corner breakfast table is taken up by what looks like a midsummer flower garden, complete with ornamental birds. The card on the bouquet reads, “In loving memory of Grandma from her Grandchildren.”

She went quickly, though it didn’t seem like it at the time. One minute she hobbled into the dining room, hand on her hip for the pain; the next, she could hardly walk at all. Within two days Mom was bedridden and stopped eating. Her hospice nurse ceased all but comfort medication. Family gathered and took turns sitting with her around the clock, administering pain meds every four hours and sometimes in between. By night, the spare rooms were occupied by my sisters, and my nephew (a nurse by profession) slept on the couch and took a shift when he could.

Since I am an early morning riser, I volunteered for the wee hours between 3 a.m. and whenever everyone else woke up. My plan was to doze a bit before launching into my 5 a.m. writing practice. But rarely did I sleep. I held Mama’s hand and memorized the feel of it – every curve, every arthritic knuckle and age spot. I listened to her breath. I raised her bed to help her sit up when she coughed. I gave her water through a sponge swab and administered the 4 a.m. oral meds carefully, so that they absorbed into her cheek and didn’t rush down her throat, causing aspiration.

“Oh Mama,” I whispered, “ I love you.” That’s all I could really say. I couldn’t say, “Good night, we’ll have coffee in the morning,” like I always did, because I knew that wasn’t going to happen. She squeezed my hand when I spoke. As the days went on, however, that squeeze became weaker.

In those hours, I often wondered if her dementia mind registered that she was dying, or if she thought she had some ailment like “a damn cold” and felt that “this too shall pass” and would be back on her feet soon. I grieved often – silently at her bedside and quietly during the day when I felt her absence in my daily routine. She was not in her sunroom chair, where I brought her coffee and toast every morning. She was not rummaging through the refrigerator looking for a snack throughout the day. I didn’t have to keep an eye and ear out for her every move in the house, but I still did. When I went to work for a few hours just to take a break, I’d find myself thinking “What do I need to bring home from the store for Mama today?” and my breath would catch in grief.

Somewhere between day four and five, she became silent and barely spoke at all. On day six, a blessing and prayer from another nephew, who is a pastor, were offered as the family crowded into her bedroom. In a weak, raspy voice, she said she could see Dad. Day seven and eight blurred together, and just after sunrise on day nine, Mama breathed her last. My sisters and brothers and I were around her. I held her hand with one hand, and with the other, felt the blood in her pulse flow to a rest.

I don’t have to describe the moments after. Anyone who has lost someone so dear and loved can take it from there. It doesn’t matter how old or sick the person is; death is still met with tears.

The days following were filled with phone calls and funeral arrangements: flowers, food and old photos, special music and hymns, readings and Bible verses, reservations for the prayer service, funeral service and the meal afterwards, the obituary- oh goodness, how does one fit a whole life in a few paragraphs? Did anyone contact cousin Lori? Has anyone called the family on the East Coast? When are your boys coming home?

While I graciously greeted neighbors bearing baked goods and a house filled with family, my default was a desire for solitude to wrap myself around the new reality of Mom’s absence. Yet I also understood the necessity and healing grace of communal grief. We carry and are carried by each other in times like these. Carry we did, right up until the day after the funeral when all five of us kids, spouses and my boys sat around the dining room table opening sympathy cards, writing thank you notes and discussing memorials.

And then the house was silent. Not an empty, lonely silence, but a peaceful sort of silence. It was just me, and the cat, and the smell of roses.

I walked into Mama’s bedroom, barren now of the hospice bed and the chairs that were put back into other rooms. I stood at the window and looked out. A full moon cast shadows across the winter snow. And then I heard them. The owls. Dashing out of the room, down the hallway to the door, I slipped on my boots and coat and stepped into the winter night.

The owls sounded again, one nearby, the other replying in the distance. On and on they gently called across the stillness. I closed my eyes and exhaled a long breath that rode out in a delicate cloud against the moonlight. Mama was at peace.

And not a twig was moving.

---

Thank you for reading to the end of this essay! A special thanks to those who have followed me through this journey as I cared for my mother and wrote about it in essays previous to this one.

If my words resonated to you, please like, comment or share with others. If you’d like to read more of my writing select the “Subscribe button” below.

My Substack page is free and will ask for you email. You’ll receive an email from me each month when I publish a new essay.

Keep your eyes on the skies for the next full moon in March when I will publish another Substack essay.