We are home, my Gay Old Soulmate and I. And there is no one to call. No number to dial. No one to pick up the phone at the other end and hear my report, “we’re back home in Philadelphia” (really meaning, “we’re safely home”). Mom is dead.
We three sons were with her when she died. Although she suffered little pain, the cancer that killed her made much of her last months miserable. She had complained several times that she didn’t understand why dying had to take so long. She was ready. And we readily released her. Hers had been a good life, a full life. I won’t say it was a good ending—but it wasn’t a bad one. And now she no longer lives there, back home, in Kansas. I find it hard to wrap my head around the absence, much less my heart.
My father died in 1992 after a long, pain-filled struggle with prostate cancer. About three months later, my Gay Old Soulmate and I were awakened by a call informing us that my uncle had also died—unexpectedly of a heart attack. Since he and his family lived about an hour’s drive from us, Mom (still grieving my father’s death) flew out immediately to Philadelphia to spend time with my aunt. My Gay Old Soulmate and I had also rushed to my aunt’s house when we heard the news. So when Mom arrived to stay in our guest room, I apologized that we had not properly cleaned the house in preparation.
“My house is always clean,” she replied. “No one lives there anymore.”
That quiet sentence, a vessel of bottomless absence, pierced my heart then. It has forever since, each time I recall the words. And now, it comes back to me more achingly deep than ever, because, we have made it home, and there is no one to call.
I step off the train into Brattleboro’s darkness. It is 5:00 o’clock, but the sun had set before we reached Greenfield. I cross the road and head up Main Street. My briefcase hangs on a strap around my neck. I lift the bag of lunches (food for more than two) packed by Ruth and Beth. And I pull my suitcase behind me. What little traffic has backed up on Main disappears quickly once the train clears the crossing. I am left alone, trudging up the steep sidewalk. Dark store windows follow my progress. Even the restaurants have closed for Thanksgiving.
