Today marked eight years to Imma’s death. It found me in the South of France, six months into our globe-trotting, home-seeking adventure. Yesterday we bought a car, the closest thing we’ve been able to call a home since we left ours in July. We call it, “Argenté.” The kids call it, “Silvery.”
The kids call me, “Anene,” or “Nene” for short. They used to call me, “Mama,” but that is no more. I used to call her “Mimma.” My mama-imma. מי מה? Who? Where? Mimma. I don’t call her anymore, though I wish I could, I wish I could call her up right now and say, “Hi, Mimma.” That’d be enough, you know. What else is there to say? Hi, Mimma.
I called her today, in the little yurt crammed with our four mattresses, the kids away with Haff. First I tried to call my Israeli car insurance, to get a letter saying we had a good record so that we could insure Silvery. Argenté. The reception was spotty because of the weather. I kept getting those 3 little tones, as if I were being summoned back into a concert. I tried calling my sister, because, Mimma. Summoned back to the concert. I tried calling my dad, because Mimma. Back to the concert.
So I called Mimma. The reception was fine, but all I had to say was, ‘Hi, Mimma.” Over and over again, in tentative sing-song. Mi-Ma over and over again, like these two questions were a key to the gates of heaven. Or maybe an answer, the ultimate answer to, “What do you wish you’d said to your mother before she died?”
Because I told her, in her actual last day, how much I loved her, exactly what I’d loved most about her. How I wish I’d been a better daughter. I thought long and hard about what I wanted to say. But for eight years I have not been able to shake off the feeling that I didn’t crack the code. That there was something more I could have said. Something that would have made it all Okay. Something that would have kept her from dying? But what else is there to say, except for “Hi, Mimma.” That’s really enough, you know.
Hi, Mimma.
January 2018
All of the Worlds 