Mother

“Words used in different form and measure tell the story of our lives. Such stories conjunct other stories creating a collective story, word for word. When perfected, and connected, they sound of music playing in perfect harmony. They dance to the rhythm of meter and time on the road to meaning and understanding.” -jc

For many years now, since before I could remember, my Mother has been fixated on words. Whispering sounds for hours on end from all corners of the house. Words escaped between the cracks in the wall, under the doorway or the wall sockets like mice in the sugar cane fields. She could be doing the laundry, mopping the floors or cooking and she had you believe that these tasks couldn’t possibly get done without the constant flow of words in the air. Such words fascinated mothers sense of being in the world, of which she referred to as ‘‘magique’ which traversed the mythical realms of sound, a sort of ‘Music of the Spheres’ except for words.

The repetition of sounds, constant like a mantra descending from heaven as she formed words and sentences as though they could move the nine planets and just maybe they could.  Words put together sometimes with no meaning at all, nonsensical, just a pleasing sound to the ears, commencing from the vibration in the throat. The magic was in the smile they gave to your face. It could be the name of a song, a book title, or a new word from her dictionary, which she always carried with her. Although most of the time I hadn’t a clue as to what she was talking about or if she even knew, I do remember sitting in silence and thinking about the ‘magique’ she repeated, having more questions than answers but this is as it should be.

My mind takes me back to one particular spring morning while she walked me to school, she kept repeating in a faint but audible whisper the words “Norwegian Wood”, the title of the Beatles song. Other kids started to make fun as though she were crazy. A little embarrassed, I wasn’t sure what she liked more, the song or its title.  Soon there would be rumors about her eccentricities, but most people who knew her treasured her whimsical and unexpected mannerisms.

In a way, words were a sort of religious or spiritual ritual for her and they keep to that trusted road in her life now. And thank you, I have inherited her love of words.

-for my mother                                                                      

jc2018-9

*Image courtesy of Pixabay