She called me by my name.


Hearing my mother say my name, unexpectedly brought tears to my eyes.

Hearing my name, not Sweet, or some other euphemism.

I realized instantly how rare it is these days to hear my own name.

My mother’s childhood name for me consisted of a litany of my older sisters’ names followed by “oh, whoever you are”, hardly ever my given name.

Recently, I’ve met and gotten to know someone whose parents are no longer here on earth. Through this experience, and this pandemic, I’m gaining a new appreciation…

for everything.

My dad’s been gone for almost 45 years. I have no recollection of his voice.

My mom is still alive. I can pick up the phone and call. For the most part she picks up. Thankfully, she knows who I am still.

Maybe the tears came because:

  • I wonder if this is the last time, I’ll hear her voice. I’ve got to capture the memory.
  • death is being highlighted and fear is being spread, instead of how many have recovered from COVID-19.
  • we’ve been quarantined for over a month now.
  • we’ve become such a texting world. We hardly hear each other’s voices anymore.
  • yesterday, I read ALL the letters on the Historic Oakwood Cemetery death letter project.
  • it’s a mixture of it all.

Names are important. Use them often.