When my mother lay dying many years ago, I wanted to pin a note to her nightie, for her to deliver to my father. I was certain she would be seeing him. 

 

A friend told me that when his own mother died she found a way to send him a message. It took sixteen years, but such details matter less in the context of eternity. His cousin was born within a few weeks of his mother's transition, and when she was in high school she made a concerted effort to visit him. Which was odd, considering the volume of relatives they shared. But she showed up, and in a way that renders words irrelevant, wanted to be with him. The content of the conversations was muted by the affection, which seemed to come through his cousin as opposed to from her. Over the next few years it seemed that this young woman was a messenger. Which is another word for angel. 

 

Later the love found different carriers. Older women stepped in as conduits for a maternal energy that seemed larger than each relationship would afford.  One offered to transcribe chapters for his book. Another became a fellow philosopher, with the emphasis on phileo. The last one was an aunt who simply joined him for coffee a few times a month, Again she singled him out of a large pool of nephews, as if she became the flesh and blood connection from his mother. Who had left too soon.  

 

It can seem like the people who loved us have gone silent. They are busy with celestial escapades, and have better ways to spend their time than to reassure us of their devotion. 

 

But I don't believe it.