Parental Voices


When I visited my parent’s urns in New York City—a number of years after they had died, I saw their names etched into the three-story wall of names at the Trinity Mausoleum. Their ashes were behind the wall—what was left of their flesh and bone. But their spirits were alive in me--so alive, in fact, that I found myself arguing with them (mainly my mother) over whether I was doing the right thing by retiring at 61 instead of staying at least a few more years in my full-time teaching job. Should I do this? Can I do this? I wanted them to leap out of the concrete wall, fully embodied and tell me what to do. Pathetic, perhaps, that at 61 I still wanted their permission? But my mother, though a small person, was a force to reckon with.

But don’t we all, in some primal way, want to please our parents (even if we rebel). I’ve done many readings of my poetry and prose but I remember, very specifically, the few times that my parents were in the audience. I remember what they were wearing—my mother with her ultra suede skirts and silk blouses, my father with his khaki pants and sports coat. I remember where they sat. What I had for dinner that particular night (lasagna flooded with cheese). I remember what they said or didn’t say.

So even though I had done my calculations for years now, believing that Jim and I could figure out a way to live on less—I could hear my ever-practical depression-era mother asking me endless questions: “How will you pay all your bills?” “Do you want to give up $300 more dollars a month in pension money?” “Will you be able to set up classes?”

Then there was the other side—my husband and sister’s voices: “We’ll be fine” “Take care of your neck” “You’ll find classes to teach.”

In the end I did retire at 61—but not really retire. I have set up many classes. I’m writing every week. We sold one car. We have students living with us. We have a house and enough to eat.

But sometimes I imagine my mother shaking a finger at me—(if I spend too much on a credit card or live beyond my means). My father paces every once in a while—but mostly he’s happy to see birds fly by or read words shaped by the cumulus clouds that float endlessly in the upper realms where they now live.

I’ve made my decision and it’s the right one. I’m a member of the SF Writer’s Grotto and today I’m writing—one of the main reasons I left my job—to write more.

I don’t need to ask permission any longer though I think my mother has given me some advice during the night. “Stop spending so much money on chai lattes,” she said when I was sleeping. “And take your lunch to work with you!” “And sew buttons on that coat. You don’t need a new one!”

“Yes, Mother,” I say. Though I think I will slip out the door for a chai latte later on.