Do You Still Laugh? Do You Still Sing?, Melinda Augustina [best thriller novels to read txt] 📗

/>
Brutality as a communication style is hardly what I would have expected within days of your passing.

And I see it is simply a patterned way we all have of relating - ugh - too bad. I remember it causing you pain many times.

When everyone is gone the house is peaceful - as if you had locked the doors yourself - turned out the lights in each room as you have for the last 30 years - straightened and ordered what had been moved during the day . . .


There is no peace when everyone is here - people speak and do not hear each other - ask for things and do not get them - it is a quick trip to hell - like a Fellini film. The dark side of Italian chaos.

On Monday, the day you died, we came home - 2am I think - and though we were laying in beds and on sofas, I don’t think anyone slept. And then the daylight came. Funny – even when I don’t want it – daylight always comes. The whole day everyone was soft.

The softness of your love continued on through the day. Everyone spoke gently to each other and I thought “wow” we got it. Everyone sees now how delicate life is - they really do. How we must tend to each other, work for each other, do for each other.


What a relief - just enjoy the rest of the time here. No one has to say anything. Thank God. It’s already done - it’s a miracle.


Or not.


By Tuesday, people were rough with each other again. It seems the brutality comes with the daylight and softness returns with the night.

Why is that?


Do you remember when I was about nine years old I asked you what is it like in heaven? You told me that it was very beautiful there and when you’re in heaven you’re with God and you are very, very happy. And absolutely all of your desires are met. As soon as you want something - it appears!

Do you remember that? And remember I said, “Even ice-cream?” and you said, “Yes. Even ice-cream.” Isn’t it funny what nine year olds think of? You must have had to fight hard not to laugh.

So that is for me, the difference between heaven and hell. People are making either heaven or hell for each other right here on earth.


I remember hundreds of times you made heaven on earth for me, and everyone in the family. And I want you to know how powerful that is for me now. I think that is the ultimate game to create heaven here and now. I would like to show many people how to do that.

M.


Mother,

On Monday, we looked out the sunroom window and there was a red bird couple sitting in the evergreen tree.
A male and a female together. Suzie saw it too and we said, “There they are.”

How many years I watched you watching the birds in your garden and in your trees. From the house and while sitting outside. I know how rare it is to see a red bird couple and I know your spirits are together - and I know you are happy.

You two belong together. You did a great job of being strong when Daddy died - making sure we all stayed happy. Over time I could feel you wanting to be with him. Eleven years is a long time to be without your love.

M.


Mother,

We go through your things too quickly. Thousands of objects in this house - big ones, little ones, your hands have touched them all.

I learned recently that the hands and arms are part of the energy of the heart circuit. That means your heart has also touched everything.

Everything feels so soft when I touch it. It seems to have your love on it. Everything and everywhere. How do you do that?

Everyone thinks I cry because you are gone - and that’s not it. I cry because our expression of love seems so meager compared to yours. Ours is so hard compared to your softness. How will we ever learn?

M.

Mother,

Efficiency and love are definitely NOT the same thing.

I remember reading that speed is not of the devil - it is the devil. I don’t know if that’s true (I enjoy lots of fast things) but I find my curiosity for efficiency is almost completely gone. I am giving way to the curiosity of the Big Love.

Thank you.

M.


Mother,

Right now everyone is gone - it is evening and I sit in the living room in the middle of the sofa and I feel only a fraction of what you must have felt every time the troops arrived and departed.

There is a lump in my throat, a sadness in my eyes, a breaking open of my heart, a tingle in my stomach.

Now a curiosity enters my eyes and a sense of excitement. So I imagine that sad moment would translate into freedom and excitement for you, too.

You were so brave! I know to you it was nothing, but to me you seem so brave. To let nine pieces of your heart loose in to the world for better things and sometimes for worse things.


And my first desire is to sit at the piano and play. How can that be? Is that your spirit in me? I’m happy to play for you - just remember I don’t play as well as you - I only stumble.

I feel your stance, your nobility, your way in me as I consider it so I know it is your desire…and so, I will play.

Love,
M.


Mother,

We were going through your jewelry - costume and otherwise. There were your five girls and two grand daughters.

We sat on and around your bed as we have done so many times in the 42 years you were our mother and you were present.

We laughed at your earrings remaining from the 70’s, the chandelier earrings and bundles of beads.

Theresa mentioned how she had tried to convince you to pierce your ears. I’m glad you didn’t do that. It hurts!


We gave Aunt Donna most of your “wild side” jewelry and of course there is the question of what to do with “the rings.” The diamond ring is so soft. I can feel your love in it. I asked if I could wear it and everyone was easy with it at the time.

I wore it for a day and a half and I could feel your presence and your love. I could feel Daddy’s love and your love. I could feel the love of two well-matched people who loved and learned together. How something so hard - a diamond - can feel so soft - well that can only be the magic of love.

When I took it off , I felt some energy drain from my heart. It has so little to do with it being a ring - it has everything to do with feeling your love.

The story of your and Daddy’s love has inspired my life and I’m curious how anyone could want me to have less than the adventure I was raised with.


Catherine and Theresa said, “Just pick one and be done with it.” - a husband that is. Pick one and be done with it. Pick a vegetable, pick a fruit, pick a man. Sounds simple enough.

Love,
M.


Mother,

And now is the overwhelming feeling that I’ve done everything wrong. I suppose this moment was inevitable.

Like many daughters I was sure there’d be time to do the rest of the things I wanted to do with you and for you.

Don’t worry. We’ll take care of everything here. Everything will be done as it’s supposed to be done. Somehow, it’s all perfect. Even my wrongness is perfect. There’s a good laugh for you.

Love,

M


Mother,

No one wants the things of yours that I want. I noticed that. And that’s sort of perfect too, isn’t it?

The linens - the napkins and tablecloths, the tea cups and the tea pots. The Mrs. T Tea maker. The Mrs. T Tea maker - a very appropriate tea pot for you.

And you are the picture of gentility and manners when tea is set. Thank you for letting me share that with you - thank you for sharing that aspect of your happiness with me.

Love,

M


Mother,

Your “review” came out in the paper on Sunday. Ha, ha... not a review really - you know - an article on your contribution to the music community.

And I am experiencing again as if it were just this Sunday - maybe 15 minutes ago when we ran outside on a cold, December morning to get my first newspaper review of my first play in the “real world”. How funny - the play was Sylvia Plath’s letters to her mother and here I am writing you letters.

We were both in our pajamas and we sat on the steps in the front hall and squealed with delight as we read how they loved it. And yes, even more happy at how they praised my performance. Well come on now, I had the best teacher in the world.


You were so proud of me and I was so proud to hear you say you were relieved it was a good review. Not for the sake of a good review (those are easy enough to come by), you didn’t care about that. You said you wanted to be sure your love of me was not interfering with your professional observations of me as a performer. Both of our consciences could only be satisfied with absolute truth in that arena. That was the highest praise I would ever receive in my life. And I thank you for that objectivity.

I have only wanted to make you proud. To take my talents as far as they could go in honor of you who passed them on to me.

This article about you, your contribution, makes an impression on another piece of naiveté in me. Why are they surprised that a music teacher would attend all of her students’ recitals?


Why are they surprised that you would continue to read and educate yourself on every aspect of performance?

Why are they surprised by your true love of what you do? I thought every teacher was like that -- oops -- wrong again.

M.

Bargaining


Mother,
Today is the “if only” day. From what little education and preparation we’ve had