This Little Light of Mine

“Hon, you need to get home. She’s not doing well. It’s time.”

I don’t remember how long I held onto the phone after hearing my mother’s somber words but it had long ago disconnected the call. I wanted to pull the old Grand Cherokee out of my assigned parking space and head north, but I couldn’t… not yet.

It seemed like each of my actions were automatic, knowing what to do but not really knowing why I was doing them. I didn’t know my next step until it happened.

The duffel bag I had prepared just for this occasion sagged in the corner of the room. I grabbed a few extra items, folded them neatly and set them inside, then zipped it closed. I set it on the coffee table and then plopped onto the equally saggy couch.

I knew if I didn’t make the call right then, I wouldn’t do it at all. The phone rang only twice and then, “Thank you for calling, Blockbuster. What would you like to watch today?”

“It’s me. We gotta go.” My words seemed strangely distant, not recognizable as my own.

“I’ll be there in about an hour. The store closes in 5 minutes and I’ll wrap up as quick as I can.” The quiet lasted hours but only to me. “I’m sorry, Babe. I will be there as soon as I possibly can.”

It helped to keep busy while I waited. Dog food bagged and crate collapsed. Dishwasher unloaded. Bed made perfectly that wouldn’t be slept in that night. The vacuum masked the sound of the door closing behind him and I startled when he touched my shoulder.

Tears welled. Instead of turning him, I turned back to the vacuum. Until he unplugged it.

“I will grab everything. Splash some cold water on your face. Take a few deep breaths. Okay?”

I heard his words. I nodded my head. Words meant nothing.

I grabbed the bag of our clothes after leashing the dog and headed back to the Jeep. Feeling my depression, she sat on my lap, her wagging tail and lolling, slobbery tongue made me smile, but that smile wasn’t felt as the happiness it usually brought.

He dropped off something in the backseat, slammed the difficult door and slid into the driver’s seat. I wasn’t ready. But it was time.

Already long dark, the headlights forged our path up the 17 and onto the 95. The dark desert on either side seemed to close in on me, threatening the last of the light I held in my heart.

He started humming, barely audible over the already loud humming of my nearly bald tires. The road noise seemed to be the only thing I could focus on, keeping my thoughts away from the difficult situation I was headed for.

His soft humming became louder. I forced myself not to listen to it. But the tune grew on me and my fingers tapped in my lap. Then I started humming myself. He was the first to speak the words…

“This little light…” a pause. We both continued quietly, “I’m gonna let it shine.”

The tears overflowed. The final two hours of the drive I pulled my knees up, hugging them in front of me as I was tangled in the seatbelt, quiet tears streaming down my face. Never did the humming stop.

I hadn’t noticed that the car was stopped in front of the house. Several other vehicles were parked in the drive and along the curb. I didn’t want to face this alone but the idea of a house full of people, all feeling the same as me, was frightening.

The owner of the voice who had called me just 6 hours ago came walking slowly down the front steps. Her hand was cold on my cheek and she grabbed my hand tight. It felt like she was tugging me along as I fought back.

Any warmth I felt from the long hours of crying turned frigid as I saw her frail frame and yellowed skin against the crisp, clean, white sheets on the aged hospital bed. Surrounding her were family I hadn’t seen in years. I knew they were there, but I didn’t look at them.

Everyone was quiet as I walked into the room and knealed at the side of the bed. Her hand was cold but she weakly squeezed my fingers. As the last person on their way, our family was complete. All of the lives descended from hers, all of the lives touched by her light, surrounding her as that light was slowly fading.

Someone started humming, although no one really knew who it was.

Several moments later, my mother spoke the words.

This little light of mine... I’m gonna let it shine...

A dozen voices quietly joined in until the quiet sadness became a beautiful harmony. For several minutes, the singing continued as one by one, we each said our own, special goodbye to our matriarch. One by one, those voices quieted as they walked away from the bed.

With one deep, raspy breath… there were no more.

A candle flickered near the head of the bed. One more time, each of us approached the bed. Each with a tall, white candle we lit ours from hers.

Her small light grew into a dozen not just in those moments but over decades of love and laughter. Once again, the words started quietly.

This little light of mine… I’m gonna let it shine…

A dark night that she wouldn’t see with her eyes, but we would see with her light.