The other day, I was walking from work to meet my wife and her friend for dinner. I had Rob Lowe's latest book, Love Life, playing on Audible on my iPhone, and he started telling the story of the night his wife's father died. In one part, Rob describes how a doctor blocked Rob and his wife from entering the emergency room where doctors were doing everything they could to save the father's life.
Hearing the story transported me in an instant to the memory of Dad and I dashing down the hospital hallway to the room where Mom was living her last moments. At first, a doctor had asked us to step out of the room. Seeing us craning our necks to see through a set of windows with the blinds partly closed, a nurse asked us if we would like to be with Mom. When we nodded yes, she cleared a path for us through a flock of doctors.
As I walked down 6th Avenue, I felt as present in that room with Mom as I had when I had lived it. I began to walk more slowly. How odd, I thought, at the realization that I was headed to dinner with one of Annie's friends who had been the most supportive when Mom died. So often I feel that things connect to a memory of Mom. When she died, the axis of the planet changed for me forever. It makes sense though, because she was always a pillar my life had been built upon. Life trudges on though, and so I snapped back to 6th Avenue and headed to dinner.