imagining Belief

 

Imagining Belief

Noel Laflin

August 31, 2022

 

My mother died twenty-five years ago today, in other words, a quarter of a century ago; or a milestone ago; however you measure it, the day now just seems so very, very long ago. But I still picture it all too clearly as the anniversary (a poor choice of words, it seems to me) creeps up this time of year, as August always prepares to takes its final bow and let autumn have its eventual, colorful way.

It occurred on a bright sunshiny Sunday morning, with autumn still begging to be let in.

It was a blessing when it finally happened, however, as the last weeks of our mother's life were pretty hard on her and she really wanted to go - only the body was stubborn, up until the very end.

Sometimes, like today, I tend to believe, as some benign beliefs are indeed comforting and since mom had faith enough to counterbalance my very lack thereof - that it was the man with the sad eyes and subtle smile, the fellow in the old picture that hung on the wall at the foot of the bed in which my mother rested - the man, hippie-like in appearance, long-haired, bearded, dressed in a robe and holding a small white lamb (a simple print that hung on the wall of our parents’ bedroom for all the years that I could recall), that it was he who quietly stepped out of the picture frame (when nobody was looking) that bright sunshiny Sunday morning (never letting go of the lamb either), walked a few steps and whispered to our mother that it was time to go.

And with that encouragement, she happily took flight.

Do I also believe that the kind man with the sad eyes then walked back, taking up residence in the simple picture frame once more, and watched over our father for the next decade, until it was time to secretly step out again (still gently holding the lamb), quietly stroll across three cities in the blink of an eye and whisper the same words to dad that he'd said to mom?

I don't know.

Sigmund Freud once wrote: "Just as no one can be forced into belief, so no one can be forced into unbelief."

Consequently, all I do know for certain is that dad also took flight on another bright sunshiny Sunday morning (spring was now begging to be let in) ten years later, in search of mom, no doubt - or so I like to believe.

And the man in the picture frame, the one that still hung in an empty bedroom, smiled ever so subtlety and hugged the small lamb just a little bit closer to his breast - or so I like to imagine.

It would be a good ending to share with mom.