Other Mothers

At the Spring Music Festival last week, (almost) three year old S was running up and down the aisles, bouncing from one set of open arms to another as his father C played the piano or the accordion accompanying the singing and dancing. He would run up to be near C. then back along the long red carpet of the chapel to whomever he could manage to tickle with his laughter.

I remember that S was born in June because a few days after he was born his mother died. All winter long, I watched as H's belly grew and blossomed, the excitement and longing for her baby cresting just as the forsythia burst through. Love of music, dance, the wild places where we live brought C and H together and their beautiful son into the world. In the days before she died, she got to hold him and look into his eyes and feed him from her milky breast.

At the memorial service, S was passed between what have become his other mothers; C's ex-wife, the mother of the severely disabled child that H cared for in her work as a physical therapist, the members of the choir. There was poetry, stories, dancing from the improve group where H danced. They glided by the alter at the old Congregational Church, arms and bodies folding and unfolding around each other, coming together then falling apart. In that standing room only church, we all saw friends (old and new) from the overlapping parts of our lives in this small town; friends from the bakery, that shelter where you volunteered ten years ago, the yoga class when it was taught in the church basement. Brought together in grief and celebration, we held C and S and H in our hearts and through the years with food, money, shelter, shoulders to cry on.

For me, the miracle in all this is that C continues to create the sweetest music. Pulling it out from dark places, S's love of cinnamon buns, the hands reaching out to take over when he needs a rest.