Sunday Meditation 10

Coffee & Sweet Rolls at Mom’s House — One Last Time

The Lamb Boys had coffee for the last time at Mom’s yesterday. You may recall she died some months back. (I wrote about it here at Medium.com.) She was 90.

Mom was complex: Daughter of immigrant Italian Catholics. (Calabrese.) Daughter of The Depression. Careful with money. Even more careful with time. She could not stand still. Always polishing. Wiping. Dusting. You name it. Whether it was at home, at church where she volunteered or at a family function like a wedding, baby shower or funeral. Mom wasn’t just there. She was working.

“Sit down, Ma!” we’d wail when we came for breakfast. “Sit down. We’re here to spend time with you.”

Eventually she’d surrender. Begrudgingly pull up a chair. And sit.

Way back when, Mom’s meals were elaborate: Eggs. Bacon. Sausage. Ham. Sweet rolls. (Cold cereal and hot oatmeal also available.) About 10 years ago, she down-sized: Fewer choices. Shorter serving times — until, finally, it was coffee and sweet rolls. If they ran out before you got there, tough luck.

Relatives and friends would occasionally drop in. (Open invitation.) Ron. Rodney. Jesse. Paul. Steve. Grant. Aaron. And more. Doug, Rick and I were the regulars. Brother Mark attended when in from Virginia.

Doug, Mark and I were there yesterday. (Rick died some years back. From cancer.) Cousin Rodney stopped by. The four of us shared three folding chairs. Doug brought a thermos and warm-to-the-touch sweet rolls.

Looking over the empty house, memories splashed and flashed around like an 8mm movie flickering onto an old sheet. The couch where I slept when I got out of the Navy. Shower-stall in the garage where I’d clean up after a sweaty day’s work. Living room corner where the Christmas tree stood — presents everywhere, grandkids squealing. Front yard where we played football. Backyard where we worked on cars. Dining room where we had our last Thanksgiving when Dad was still alive.

I was the first to leave Saturday. Back was hurtin’. The memories hurt, too. Even the good ones.

I’m sitting here, now, listening to old songs. Maudlin. Mushy. Melancholy. Knowing that in a short time another family will live in that little three bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath that was The Lamb Home for nearly 50 years.

Gone.

Recollections remain. Happy ones. Sad. Good ones. Bad. My hollow heart echoes with distant sounds. Faded feelings. Stone-washed images. Things will never be the same … they never are.

Jim Lamb is a retired journalist and author of “Orange Socks & Other Colorful Tales,” the story of how he survived Vietnam and kept his sense of humor. He’s not usually this serious. For more about Jim and his writing, visitwww.jslstories.com.

Archive:

Sunday Meditation 1: The Prodigal Son

Sunday Meditation 2: Ode to Jim Elliot

Sunday Meditation 3: House of Bread

Sunday Meditation 4: Run, Baby, Run

Sunday Meditation 5: When Jesus Prayed

Sunday Meditation 6: The Hebrew Alphabet

Sunday Meditation 7: Lost my Friends

Sunday Meditation 8: Jesus Saves & So Do Lifeguards

Sunday Meditation 9: Tim Tebow’s Dad & Me

My Testimony: Stealing Psalm 40