conversations

As I was driving into work last week a Jim Croce tune came on the radio. I’ll Have To Say I Love You in a Song. I was reminded of what a lovely and gifted songwriter he was and that he died too young and far too soon.

As often happens with me, a fleeting thought like this can lead to endless musings on various and sundry topics. I have an eternally wandering mind and I’m always getting lost in thought. On this particular day, I was thinking about all the people, famous and not, who also died before their time. The list is long so I won’t even go there. But we all have people we loved and admired, either close to us or amongst the celebrated and famous, who checked out of Hotel Planet Earth when we weren’t ready for them to go. The remarkable ones we wish had been around even a little bit longer so that we could enjoy their particular brilliance and perspective on the world.

I often wonder what kinds of songs these dearly missed ones would have sung, stories told, canvases covered, poetry rhymed, jokes cracked, goals scored, pirouettes twirled, music written. I also wonder what they’d think of this present-day world they left behind. What would they have to say about it?

But the really big thing I pondered last week, as I drove across the country road in my Ford Ranger was, “what about all the missed conversations?” All those marvelous words that were left unspoken. The winsome thoughts yet to be expressed. The pillow talk. And dinnertime discussions. The tete-a-tetes over tea. The long distance telephone calls. The gossip, the gabfests, chitchats and chinwags.

Ma died fourteen years ago today. And I have to say these are what I miss the most. Our beautiful little conversations. What I wouldn’t give for a cup of tea and a heart-to-heart across the kitchen table at 204.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E6Vn17S37_Y&list=RDE6Vn17S37_Y#t=30

Ma and Me on the town in our snazzy slacks.

I love to walk. Alone. Or with dogs. Sometimes with people. But mostly I like to walk alone (which sounds like the title of a good country song but that’s another story.)

I didn’t always.

A little back story. I have a long history of walking, which began with my mother. She too loved to walk. She didn’t drive so in order to get around and maintain her independence, she walked or took public transit, which in our town meant the bus. When my father wasn’t working, he drove her to and fro, mostly to the grocery store and the plaza, which eventually flourished and grew into a mall. Progress. But I digress.

I loved walking with my mother. And talking. Ma wasn’t a big talker, but she was an excellent listener. This gift alone made her an extraordinary conversationalist. She was quite simply, transcendent in this talent. With Ma, there was never any competition for airtime, cutting off mid-sentence, interrupted chains of thought, one-up-man-ship, running rings around, nor upstaging in quick wit and repartee. She was a delighted, polite and interested listener. I liked that. I could pour my heart out and bare my soul endlessly and still she listened, with kindness, patience and love. She offered her opinion when asked, her advice when needed, her consolation and comfort unconditionally. I liked that too.

I think over the years Ma and I must have traversed thousands of miles and covered an infinite array of topics while doing so. Everything from soup to nuts (literally). We solved all of the world’s problems, or at least had a few good recommendations. We walked off pain, sorrow, anxiety, fear, and a few extra pounds. We laughed. We gabbed. We gossiped. We wept. We commiserated. We stopped. We started. We looked back. We looked forward. We thought we could walk forever. At least I did.

Although Ma is no longer with me physically on our walks, she is with me none the less. I have conversations with her in my head. I still seek her advice. I still hear her laughter. I smell her face cream, subtle and clean. I ask her about God. Is there anything I need to know Ma?

My Thing About God

Diaries of The Breadman's Daughter.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Missed Conversations.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Walk Talk And Listen.