The book I read was For One More Day. This is the story of a man named Charley, who after realizing that his focus is not on the things that matter, decides to kill himself. This is his story of redemption and forgiveness and the gift of one more day with his mother.
In the beginning he is grateful to see her, but as the morning progresses he is doubtful of his experience, and puts his hand on his mother's shoulder.
"You died," I blurted out.
A sudden breeze blew leaves off a pile.
"You make too much of things," she said.
As he spends the day with his mother he gets to know her, not only as his mother, but as the person behind the mother. He spends the day with her going to her "appointments." As he is trying to make sense of spending this day with his dead mother, he sees his own childhood through different eyes. He also sees his Mother's story for the first time.
"But there is a story behind everything. How a picture got on a wall. How a scar got on your face. Sometimes the stories are simple, and sometimes they are hard and heartbreaking. But behind all your stories is always your mother's story, because hers is where yours begins."
As this story unfolded, I thought of the strained relationship with my own mother and the many things she taught me. Every day I hear her voice echoing in my head.
Every summer when the air conditioner is struggling to keep up with the temperature gauge outside (like today) I think of her and how she taught me to bake bread early in the morning so that the house wouldn't heat up. I remember opening all the windows so that the canyon breeze would cool the house as the smell of fresh bread permeated everyone's dreams. I remember that first too hot piece of bread with butter melted into the crevices.
I remember the summer day at the canyon park when my mother forgot she was an adult and started the biggest water fight we had ever had. I remember my Great Grandpa calling later that day to make sure that we had not "caught our death of cold." Even now I smile thinking about how soaked we all were.
As Charley comes to grip with the relationships and events in his life, I walk through memories of my own relationships and what I would do to change some of the interactions. I remember the soft times and the heartaches. I remember my great-grandparents, my grandparents and my parents. I trace the outlines of each of their faces in my mind's eye.
On my father's side the characters are colorful. My Papaw, who knows everyone and a lot about everything. He has a story for every occasion. His laugh is what I will remember most of all. My grandma and her quiet way of directing from the background. She is only 4'11" but in my memory is always bigger. She has a heart as big as the ocean. My father, introspective and smart. When I was young I was always looking for his approval. When I was older I realized I always had it.
On my mother's side of the family the characters are more genteel, but no less colorful. My great-grandmother's amazing blue eyes and bright pink lipstick. I remember watching her arthritic hands twist a handkerchief as she says her prayers. She knows God and has real conversations, like she is talking with a loved one. I remember my great-grandfather's fresh squeezed orange juice, fresh honey and early morning peanut butter toast. He was a railroad man, a beekeeper, and had a soft spot for people. He also did amazing things with roses. My grandfather's soft spoken voice still speaks to me when I am quiet. He had an amazing way of uplifting any situation. My grandmother's insistence on beauty and her amazing talent. My mother - so many memories mushed together. Some good, some strained, all of them contributing to who I am today.
I loved this book. The three things I will remember from this book:
- Forgive not only those in my past and present, but also myself.
- I always only know one part of any story, that in the end we are all human with our own ghosts to overcome.
- Death is not really the end. I am still being watched by those who have gone on before. They are still with me.
In one part of the story, Charley's mother is teaching him about echoes.
"What causes and echo?" she once quizzed me.
The persistence of sound after the source has stopped.
"When can you hear an echo?"
When it's quiet and other sounds are absorbed.
My family's echoes are a part of my echo into eternity. I wonder what my children and grandchildren will remember of me. I wonder what part of my echo will become a part of my children's stories. Hopefully, through forgiveness and love, my echo will be beautiful.
