It’s been well over 50 years since my mom passed away. In fact, it’s been so long, I don’t even remember the sound of her voice. I have no scratchy recordings, no home movies. Just a few family snapshots in a box, all now frozen in time.
I was just 9 years old when she died, and her death disoriented me in ways big and small. In a very practical way, her passing marked the abrupt end of my childhood. Already reeling from the abandonment of my father at age five, it came at the worst possible time, though it’s never a good time for a child to lose a parent.
The last day I saw her was on a Saturday morning, but only after my siblings snuck me into the hospital. At the time, children under 16 weren’t allowed to visit patients. There she lay in a bed, tubes and wires everywhere, noticeably thinner but still smiling when she saw me.
Although I wasn’t aware of the details surrounding her condition, she was dying of cancer and only had a few days left to live.
I think of my mother quite often, especially on the verge of Mother’s Day. When I close my eyes I can still see her bright and cheery face. But, and it pains me to say this, I can no longer hear the sound of her voice in my head. It’s been too many years.
Originally published in the Washington Times. | 
