Echoes of Her Voice

"Hi, it's your mother..."

as if I wouldn't know.

Messages left in time’s quiet corners,

her voice still reaching,

though she is gone.

A four-minute pause,

news murmuring in the background,

a forgotten phone line holding space

for a presence I ache to call back.

"How’s the birthday girl?"

Fourteen months before the end.

"I’ll call you tomorrow."

But tomorrow never came.

She saved sandwiches,

offered leftovers wrapped in care

and contradiction.

Was she a good mother?

Yes.

Was she a good mother?

Not always.

A belt for my brothers,

a brush for me.

Hands reserved for teenage defiance,

until the day my lip swelled

under the weight of her pain.

She carried hurt in her bones,

a back broken before I was born,

a body fused with steel and sorrow.

Chronic pain, chronic love,

a heart too tender,

a hand too hard.

And yet—

I listen to her voice,

press play on the past,

and wish I could call her back.

At times when I miss her, I wonder if it’s really her I miss—or the idea of her. The warmth, the familiar voice, the good moments. Not the bad, not the weight she carried and sometimes passed on to us. Now, I can be who I want to be, do what I want to do. I can watch my sister finally flourish, free from the burden of being our parents’ caregiver in their final years.

I feel guilty for thinking this way, for wondering if it’s the idea of her more than her. Funny how, when people die, we tend to canonize them. Some more than others.

But maybe it’s not just the idea. Maybe it’s certain versions of her I miss.

The one who bought me movie magazines and let me cut them up after she finished with them. The one that bought me my paper dolls, my baby doll, my Barbie dolls -- brought me my sister.

The one who stayed on the phone with me for four hours in college while I threw up all night—gallstones, it turned out—her voice steady, her presence keeping me from feeling alone in my basement apartment.

The one who helped give me the strength to raise my kids as a single mother, reminding me that I was strong enough, even when I doubted myself.

The one who was there for her grandchildren, on the sidelines at their games, helped with their education, slipping them extra cash just because she could.

The one who somehow got closer to me the further away I moved, our best conversations happening when miles stretched between us.

The one who taught me how to be a mother, even if I had to unlearn some of what she showed me.

Today marks four years without being able to hear her voice. A lot has happened since—my father is gone, my ex-husband too, the father of my children. Grief is a tricky thing. Writing helps, but not always. Sometimes, it takes time before my mind finds a way to express it, before I can begin to process the loss.

I still have those voicemails on my phone. I haven’t been able to delete her or my father from my Favorites—just moved them down to the bottom of the list. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, but some part of me still holds onto the illusion that they are just a call away.

When you lose a mother, a father, a brother, a sister, a husband, a wife—God forbid, a child—grief arrives like an avalanche, burying you in photos, memories, messages. Physical and digital. A permanent imprint on the world—on your world.

I scroll through my phone sometimes, knowing I should clean things up, free up space. But then I pause—how do you delete a last message? How do you erase a voice when it’s the only thing left?

Untangling ourselves from the presence of the past is a process. And then comes the question: how much do we really want to untangle? What do we save, and where?

Texts—are they important to keep? Maybe. A conversation frozen in time, words that once carried weight now sitting in an archive. There’s a way to save them, though I can’t remember how. I tell myself I’ll figure it out one day.

But not today.

Grief doesn’t follow a straight path. It lingers in old voicemails, saved texts, photos we can’t bring ourselves to delete. In the spaces between memories, in dreams. Sometimes, they visit us there—whole again, untouched by time or pain. We talk, we laugh, we argue. And when we wake, we wonder: is it just the mind stitching together fragments of loss, helping us process what we cannot during the day? Or is it something more? A whisper, a presence, a reminder that love doesn’t end, even when life does? Who’s to say?

This old hymn, If I Could Hear My Mother Pray Again by Loretta Lynn, captures that longing. The simple act of hearing a mother’s voice, even in memory, holds a weight that time doesn’t erase.

If you’ve lost someone, how have you navigated those digital remnants? Do you keep old messages, or have you let them go? What has helped you process your grief? I’d love to hear your thoughts.