Lasting Impact
I wrote this after attending the funeral of my dear friend’s mom. My memories of her are from long ago—many of them are fragmented, but still vivid. I attempted to capture a few in this piece, and to pay tribute to a remarkable and much-loved woman.
I checked my watch, as I reluctantly yielded to the school bus. The kids in the back window were making gestures no one their age should know. As soon as they exited the highway, I stomped on the accelerator, only to be boxed in by a Mad Max gravel truck that ricocheted granite fragments off my windshield. My heartbeat thumped out a panicked mantra: you’re late you’re late, you’re late.
My best friend’s mom had died earlier that week, a few days shy of her ninety-seventh birthday. Mary McCall was an accomplished woman, but as I white-knuckled onward—my GPS barking incorrect directions, and all the lunatic drivers of Canada taking turns attempting to sideswipe me—I didn’t think about her. What ran through my mind was: Dear God, don’t let me be late to the service. And: I wonder if this dress is disrespectfully bright. And: Oh yeah? You gonna cut me off? Well, just watch this!
Somehow I accomplished the two-hour drive and arrived at the funeral home with mere seconds to spare. My dress really was much too loud. Everyone else was clad within the safety spectrum of navy to black, except for the minister, who arrived in a gloriously pink blazer. I sidled closer to her, accepted a bubbly drink, and sat.
All around the room, mounted photographs conveyed Mary’s tapestried life story. The woman I’d never thought of except as Mrs. McCall, my friend’s generic mom, had been beautiful—dark-haired in her youth, with eyes that beamed intelligence. She had forged new paths, earning a Business Administration degree when women weren’t being shown even the first rung of any corporate ladder. She joined the Women’s Army Corp and rose to the rank of Sergeant, serving in England during World War II. She had three kids, then went back to school and became a teacher, inspiring generations of students with her love of literature.
The minister told us this, and more. For the most part, we smiled for a life well lived. Occasionally, I saw a hand lift to dab away a tear, but no friends from her generation were there to mourn their lost friend. Strange, I thought, and then realized that, one by one, they must have gone before her. An arrowhead of sorrow pierced me. How lonely it must feel to be the last of your circle alive.
During a lengthy prayer, I peeked at my friend, Leigh, and her siblings. Their faces were sad but radiant, as if their mom’s love bathed them in soft light. My skin prickled as I sensed Mary’s presence, feeling her gratitude for all the care and tenderness all three of them had shown her throughout her senior years. It more than made up for the trials they created for her as teenagers—but something told me she adored them even then.
I closed my eyes and tried to summon my own memories of this woman so deeply loved. I’d spent dozens of hours in her home when I was a kid. Why were my recollections of her so blurry? Maybe if I focused hard, I’d come up with something—an endearing anecdote I could share, perhaps, or something meaningful she had once said to me.
In spite of all my concentrating, what popped into my head was an image of the scraggly cat that used to live under some debris near our high school. We’d pass it daily, and Leigh fed it scraps. As winter approached, she decided it must be rescued.
I didn’t dare approach my own parents with the proposal. But we pitched it to Mrs. McCall, who—after much wheedling from the two of us—took that mangy cat in, gave it a home, and cared for it during the many years of its ultimately happy life.
So, even though the minister never mentioned it, this woman was an animal heroine. For me, that alone was enough to earn her a prime heavenly seat. Perhaps, though, it wasn’t an impressive enough story to share.
My stomach growled, and I folded my hands over it, hoping no one had heard. I should have had a proper lunch, I thought, and then had a sudden flashback to an overnight at Leigh’s house, when I’d overindulged in everything offered to me, including stacks of garlic bread. After I developed raging stomach cramps, her mother treated me as if I were one of her own kids. The Tums and comforter helped, but it was Mary McCall’s soothing touch that made me feel cherished.
At this point, the minister was reading from Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians. The family selected it, and it was apt. Love is patient, love is kind…
My mind zoomed to Leigh’s birthday, when she turned fifteen. I gave her a stained-glass tchotchke, bearing the words, The best is yet to be. She seemed mildly grateful and thanked me, like the well-brought-up girl she was.
Her mom, though, was enchanted with my gift. She turned it this way and that, and began quoting Browning. Grow old along with me, The best is yet to be …
We thought she was zany, spouting those stodgy lines, a beatific expression on her face. But then, perhaps it was to be expected: she was already ancient—at least forty-five, almost ready for the Home.
While I was still lost in thought, the service ended. People rose, and muted conversations rumbled, but I sat and rubbed away the goosebumps on my forearms. It had been such a clear memory—a moment that had seemed inconsequential at the time and that I hadn’t thought of in decades. When I eventually got up to leave, I clung to Leigh as if it were our last-ever encounter. I drove home slowly, unable to stop thinking about that long-ago birthday—my best friend, with her shrug of thanks, and her mom, with such a sparkle in her eye.
Mary McCall assured us our lives would be adventure-filled, and encouraged us to relish every moment. We laughed in our superior teen way. Leigh stuck the ornament on a shelf, where it gathered dust, just as my memory of it did for the next fifty years.
Only now did I realize how wise Browning—and Mary—was. I thought about how we’re all kaleidoscopes of moments—big and small, vivid and pastel. Every single gesture counts.
As a school bus pulled in front of me, I smiled and waved to the kids. They laughed and waved back.
