I am back in Illinois, with Mom for a few days and then to MU for reunion.  Being back in the house I grew up in, everything is a lullaby.  The train that comes by and blows its horn three block away, the bells of St. Mary of the Lake “Seminary” (no longer a seminary, now a university) that check off time in 15 minute increments.  I even slept through a raging thunderstorm.  It’s home.

I have often taken note of how my Mom writes.  Whenever she is sitting down writing a note of some sort, there is something about the specific way in which she turns the paper to the proper angle and even though her hands are old now, her pen glides across the paper and I am always reminded of her sitting at the desk to write my excuse notes for absence from school.  In those days there were no “absence lines” to call in.  I don’t know, maybe Mom did call in, but more importantly was the note you had to bring from home to let the nun know your mother knew you were not at school.  I can remember standing next to her as she’d quickly write the note before the school bus came.  I remember watching her, just as I do now, perfect penmanship somehow landing on the page every time: Dear Sister Mary Whoever,  Please excuse Mary’s absence as she was ill.  Sincerely, Helen S Horton (Mrs. Donald E. Horton)

Yesterday something happened which trumped that memory.  I was going out for an appointment, and a good old fashioned thunderstorm had started.  As I opened the door to leave, I noticed her at the front door coat closet pulling out a plastic parka – I was about to assure her that I didn’t need it, but then she pulled out her red raincoat and held it towards me.  There was something about that moment – her holding the red jacket, the atmosphere dark with rain, that brought a wave of feeling over me that is difficult to describe.  It was as if I was once again 5 years old and in kindergarten, I had a red raincoat back then (it was clear-ish plastic as I recall).  It was raining.  I didn’t want to leave my mother.  I instantly walked over to her and puckered my lips for a kiss and said “Bye Mom” as I grabbed the red jacket.  For one hundredth of a second, she was my young mother, I was her little girl.  I had not forgotten how much I hated to leave her for school every day, but I had forgotten the feeling of it.  It amazes me how a simple everyday item, combined with a certain outdoor light and perhaps, too,  the door half opened so I could hear the rain and thunder, could evoke a total body memory of not just sight and sound, but of a little girl who didn’t want to leave her mommy and venture into the storm.