Mama died last night

Mama died last night. She was 89.

In our cold apartment in Russia, my sister held her hand, not me; I live in America, and I wasn't there at her bedside when she expired.

I picture my mama climbing the steep steps to Heaven, resting for a moment until two angels on either side approach her, fasten two white feather wings to her shoulder blades, and fly her the rest of the way.

The breeze musses her white hair as she looks down on Earth from above. The people are tiny, but she sees me in America and waives at me.

I hope she is not afraid of that height, because in the past two years, after a long battle with Alzheimer's, she was often lost and frightened in the dark labyrinth of her own thoughts.

I hope that her mind is all clear now, so she can sit and enjoy herself as she revisits each one of her joyful memories without sadness.

As for me, I owe my mama a great debt of gratitude. Some sixty years ago, she gave me my life when her abortion was already scheduled. She had chosen to keep me at the last minute, and I was born instead of being terminated.

It wasn't because she didn't want me. No, it was simply that life in Russia was too harsh, and she already had my sister Natasha, her firstborn.

Last night, Natasha called to tell me that mama passed away, so we could sob together in unison as we used to do when we were small children. Although, mama wouldn't approve too much of that wailing.

She felt it was pointless to weep or stay idle. I recall how a few years back she used to force Natasha and me to dance so that she could enjoy watching us dancing when she couldn't already dance herself.

Sweet Mama, Rest in Peace — though I'm sure you'd rather be doing something than resting, and as your child, I am with you on that.

Let me finish all of the things I'm doing on Earth before we meet again up there, where we'll have an eternity to dance.

. . .

Thank you. You can read my other Vocal stories here.