In January, my mother passed away. I never told anyone about it, but after that I continued phoning her number only to hear her voicemail, “Hey honey, leave a message.” Actually, leaving a message wasn’t the main goal. Even though it was taped, it was about hearing her voice say “honey” once again. On the days when the grief struck like a wave, it was the closest thing I had to consolation.
That voicemail was my little hidden lifeline for months.
Then it occurred on New Year’s Eve. As usual, I dialed the number, but it was no longer there. It had finally been disconnected by the phone company. No voicemail. No salutation. It was just that chilly automated message informing me that the number was no longer operational.
I failed to return inside. On the street outside my flat, I sobbed as if I had lost her again. I had, in a sense—one final thread had been severed.
“Are you okay?” a woman who was passing by said, slowing down.
Normally, I would have dismissed her, told a falsehood, and claimed to be alright. But I was shattered by something in that instant. I was honest with her. The whole truth. That my mother was gone, that I dialed her number merely to listen to her voice, and that it vanished tonight.
She did something I will never forget: she sat down with me on the curb in the chilly air and said, “Then talk,” rather than giving me hasty counsel or awkward compassion. I’ll pay attention. Allow someone to share the burden with you at the beginning of the year.
She really did mean it.
She remained up till midnight with me. We simply conversed without doing anything extraordinary. I sobbed. I chuckled a little while crying. I said things that I hadn’t said aloud in months. She paid attention as if it were important.
She gave me her number and added, “Call me instead next time,” as we eventually got up to go.
I actually made an attempt to call it a few days later on a difficult afternoon.
The number was not operational.
I still don’t know if she altered it, wrote it incorrectly, or didn’t think it would work at all. The oddest thing, though, is that I didn’t feel rejected. I didn’t feel deserted.
It seemed purposeful. Like a last act of kindness dropped into my life at the perfect moment, as if she was only supposed to be there for one night, long enough to get me through that particular moment.
I can’t quite put my finger on it, but it felt like my mother had given me one last gift: a final stranger, a final amount of warmth, and then the freedom to let go.
