Listening to Handel’s Messiah in mom’s room, at her bedside, in the hospital. What a moment to be alive. Here we are now, nothing else matters except this moment, and the hope of another moment with her, here, on this earth. Hoping that she hears these ancient notes and song and feels the spirit in her. And heaven and nature sing.

A long, slow build that starts in the second song of at least forty others, a piece created in love, praise, and admiration of the miracle of God, so many years ago, when a symphony must have been considered a modern miracle.

This moment will forever be mine, just as this music continues to live forever, centuries beyond its creation, the notes sing to create a long, deep, meditation on life and joy, themselves creating an opus of joy and beauty. So too will her spirit become timeless, a part of the ether of my life, my memory, and of all those others who have loved her.

Remember no matter how bad it may seem for you, that you have touched so many lives with your kindness, your spirit, your joy, your lessons. You may be an angel to someone else, having shown up in their life at just the right moment, when you needed to be there, and created a small miracle in their life, becoming part of their story. Their path, you may have changed it, a puff of encouragement, or aide, or reassurance, to keep them strong in their moment of darkness. A reminder that they are not alone. This is the God, the real miracle, to be able to see each other’s beauty, vulnerability, and humanness and to act with kindness and love. This I have learned by being with my mother, today, and forever, Hallelujah.

Well, the CD goes silent every few songs so I wonder if she really likes it or if she just floating in energy in the room and turning it off. What a journey she must be on. We all love a bit of drama in this family, so I’m sure she appreciates the operatic noise and intensity. It’s because of her, and PBS, that I love the opera. My god, the intensity, the passion, the depth of emotion. One of my classic Halloween costumes was the sad clown from Pagliacci. I had a poster of him on my wall, probably from in the fourth grade. This was my normal. It wasn’t exactly him, per se, but Picasso’s rendition. I guess I’d seen this painting at the Art Institute of Chicago, as this was our regular outing when we would go to visit Mom’s parents, Grandma and Grandpa D, in their very grown up apartment in Villa Park, Illinois. It was a tony suburb next to the even tonier suburb of Oak Park, where Mom had gone to High School for a time, and I think graduated, after their time in Oakland. So every holiday when we would visit, Mom and Grandma D would take us downtown to the museums, sometimes the Field where there was, and probably still is, the Fairy Castle, a dream dollhouse made for a Golden Age princess, probably a Field herself. Most often though, and this continued for many years, we would go to the Art Institute on most visits. Even then I was terrified of the 3rd rail of the El, and would imagine the worst possible fate for all of us, especially my little brother, and would hold him close to me, as close to the middle of the platform as possible. So off we would go, to see the treasures at the museum.. First, always, was the hall of armour, so wonderfully imposing. Then would be Sunday in the Park with George; I call it that because of the musical of that name, a delightful opus starring the glorious Bernadette Peters. Finally would be the Georgia O’Keefe painting of clouds over the stairs going down, a serene white hallway with natural ambient light – there must’ve been a skylight. Somewhere in all of this, surrounded by impressionist sunrises and post-war icons, was Picasso’s early period, and the loving portrait of the sad clown, with his white silk pyjamas with three big black pompons on the front, a stand-up collar, and a little hat. He was a youngish boy in this portrayal, perhaps one about my same size, at the time, so I really connected with his pale face and innocent poise.

I forget now why I’m telling you this story, but it seems important. I must go now to see my sister downstairs, while I can still do so in a world where my mother is alive and with us, for time is short.