After living in Colorado for almost two decades I have come to appreciate the long, straight roads of the Midwest. My most recent visit to Iowa, the ‘home state’, was to support a friend, who lost her mother.
Speeding down interstate 35, changing my clothes and passing cars on my way to the memorial after visiting two new, fresh additions to the family (twins Gus and Finn), I could not help getting a tad sentimental. How many times I had driven this same road with my own mom; going to visit grandparents, buying a prom dress at the big urban malls of Des Moines or departing for vacation from the airport. This road holds our history, the dotted lines between lanes like the dash between when we begin and end. The dash was too short for my mom, she had the stubbornness to go for at least 20 more years but her body, weak from years of smoking, simply could not endure.
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When I saw Laurel’s Facebook post tears immediately welled in my eyes; the name, a date, a place, and the word, that dreaded word: ‘memorial’. Our fathers had taught together at the local university and although we went to different primary schools and were a year apart in age, by my senior year Laurel and I were very close. We had a connection, a comfortability born from years of running across the English building’s office halls when we were wee, to the dad who was brave enough to deal with us that day. I walked into Laurel’s house as if it was my own that year, no knock, just a ‘hello’ to whichever brother was currently in the living room as I ran up the stairs to see my friend. No matter how much time passes I don’t believe that ‘ingrained’ type of love for a friend ever dies away.
I made up my mind, then and there to go home for her, for her mom, for all of us whose parents have gone too soon leaving an empty, unfillable hole in the soul. As my departure back to the wide open spaces of Iowa approached I realized something else was welling up inside me, the need to see new life. I knew Laurel would have her son with her, just a few months old, he was sure to be sweet-smelling, soft and innocently joyful as all children are before the harshness of the world creeps in. But, within my family we had also marked a birth, my closest cousin Kent had just celebrated the birth of twins with his amazing wife. Life was going on everywhere. I quickly dashed off a post to Kent’s Facebook page, I didn’t even announce that I was coming in town, just asked if it would be possible to see his sons and beautiful wife over the weekend.
I was happy to receive a call from Kent on my second evening in Iowa; it was Saturday and I was out with my two remaining parents for their anniversary dinner. The following day was a good fit for the family to have me come visit and knowing I had the memorial in the afternoon we decided on a late morning visit, just as the boys would be waking from their naps. I barely slept that night, tossing and turning with the paradox of life and death swirling in my skull.
My visit to Kent and his family was full of happiness and joy. I arrived prior to the boys’ waking which gave me and my cousin a chance to catch up on life’s happenings. When the soft coos and short, communicative babble began I knew the time to play had come! Kent and his wife let me fuss over and enjoy the boys as they tested their leg strength jumping up and down on the couch while I held them, ear to ear grins on all our faces. The time raced by and too soon it was time to get on the road to see Laurel. As we said our good-byes something amazing happened; a legit, fully formed and intended first word was spoken by one of the boys, ‘dada’. It was magical, one twin had heard his dad speaking, saying goodbye, and he said ‘dada’, we stopped and listened, incoherent ‘twin babble’ ensued but when Kent spoke again there it was ‘dada’.
The thrill of this was electric and as I left Kent, Sandy and the boys I was heady with the new life I had just held in my hands.
So began my speedy trip down that straight, straight interstate to where my dash had started, my hometown. Running short on time but long on miles I knew I had to make the transition from ‘auntie’ to mourning friend as I drove down the road. ‘God bless these straight roads’ I said to no one as I dug in my cavernous purse for the shoes and outfit I had brought to pay my respects in. I pulled the skirt (one of my own mother’s) on over my head and under the seatbelt while undoing the button on my jeans and attempting to stay in my lane at 80 mph. Next, my shirt, replaced so quickly by a tank top that if the trucker passing me thought he saw a girl in her bra, his next look confirmed that his eyes had been playing tricks. As I slipped my jeans off my bare feet and threw loafers over for black patent leather heels Siri announced that my exit was close.
I will be the first to admit that I do not require Siri to successfully navigate in my hometown, but being unfamiliar with the location of the service, I was counting on Siri to make the event on time. With a few minutes to spare upon my arrival, I hastily applied some color to my face, secured the buckles on my heels, and tied a bright silk scarf in my hair. As I had been packing for this trip something compelled me to bright more than black. I had asked for the OK to wear the colorful accessory since I had always thought of Laurel’s mom much like my own, bright in a myriad of ways.
I entered the place of worship and was greeted by a life collage of Ivie. The picture that had accompanied the memorial’s announcement was there with copies for attendees to take. I slipped a copy into my clutch and greeted Laurel’s dad who gazed quizzically at me for the moment before recognition hit. ‘Hi Neil. It’s Irish.’ The tightness of trying to maintain left his face and sorrow took over. He thanked me for coming and asked after my parents, I gave him their regards and expressed my sadness for his loss.
The group of people, brought together by the amazing life of Ivie, made their way into the chapel and the service began. Favorite songs were sung and memories shared. Ivie had a rich life, full of spirituality, service, travel and TONS of friends. She was mom to some, mentor to others and the person that held it all together behind the scenes for this wonderful place where she was now being remembered. Person after person shared their unique, touching, stories; water streamed from my eyes and I saw Laurel, in her front row pew doing the same. My heart absolutely broke at that moment knowing my dear friend and I now shared something that not many of our contemporaries understood.
The facility graciously hosted a reception in the community room and in that space sorrow faded and early moments of my dash came back to me. My first teacher, Corly, had been Laurel’s neighbor and Megan, another friend from the days running the halls of the English building came to show her support. Laurel, Megan and I posed for pictures for the first time since we had baby teeth in our skulls and Corly quizzed her absent daughter on who we were, hinting that Dawn hadn’t seen us all together since we had been learning to read.
I was so honored to be there, so excited and renewed to stay connected and present in my old friends’ lives. I met both Megan and Laurel’s sons, just 7 weeks apart in birth, and witnessed as they breast-fed, side by side with smiles on their beautiful, radiant faces. We talked of days passed and future, of past dreams and present plans. Our full lives picking this odd, but somehow fitting time for us to once again be together. I could feel our mothers with us, so happy that even in the vastness of the world we had all come back here to rejoin. We traded email addresses and Facebook friend requests; then just as these events are, it was over and we again set off on our separate lives to be busied with our self-concern and responsibilities.
I helped the family (my extended family) pack up and get things to the car. As they decided who was taking what, Laurel offered a beautiful bunch of flowers to take back to my parents for their anniversary. Taking them I fought back the tears, told Laurel I loved her and kissed both mother and son before getting into my car parked across from theirs.
Merging back on to the interstate, heading to my parents’ I turned up the stereo and sang all the way home. For the babies, our mothers, friends and greater families. The last song playing when I pulled the minivan into the garage was Notorious B.I.G.’s ‘Sky’s the Limit’, it totally is!!