That Hauntingly Beautiful Echo
This is the story of a moment that will stay with me for as long as my senses are intact. I will remember the drama, pathos, stunning sounds and visuals, but more than that I will remember the feeling of something deep within my DNA resonating to an echo rippling through ages past.
With St. Patrick's Day less than a week away, and as I take part in lengthy group text thread planning our family's annual parade float design graces my iPhone, I am reminded that this will be the very first celebration of my Irish heritage without my precious grandmother perched atop our float (not in physical form, anyway).
Because I’ve lived away from home since I was 18 years old and entering college, holidays spark in me a homesick surge of sentimentality, and bring to mind scattered memories of my incredibly beautiful life and family. As I participate in discussions of green beer, children dressed as leprechauns and the year our Rellihan Clan float was escorted off the parade route due to our ignoring the "no alcohol en route" rule, another particular family memory creeps into my mind with a beautiful vengeance.
It is our traditional Thanksgiving dinner at my Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Domenic's home. As the smell of turkey, stuffing and fresh-baked rolls wafts through the air, the combined sounds of adult chatter and children's laughter rounds out a celebratory scene, until a loud thud echoes frighteningly through the merriment.
The thud is deafening, but the strange and momentary silence that follows is even more striking. Then comes the shrill shriek of an innocent and terrified baby girl who seconds later we will discover is covered in blood as red as her velvet dress.
My not quite yet 2-year-old niece, Madeline, has fallen forward into a glass coffee table, and despite the table's round, beveled edges, the skin on her forehead has split from the weight of her tiny body. What transpires just prior to me, and every relative within earshot, sprinting to my niece's aid as we witness her blood-covered face, was something I will never forget.
The thud of a blonde-haired child's head on heavy glass, the silence that follows hanging in disturbing pause, the guttural scream of a tiny girl’s voice booming like thunder. And then, that same small voice cries out, desperate, terrified, and beckoning: "MOM!" My niece holds the single vowel for what seems longer than her little lungs can possibly manage.
As she arrives to see her baby girl blood-stained, my sister Julie screams with the same desperation in her voice, "Oh my God, Mo-o-o-o-o-o-m!"
Our mother runs into the room and screams for her own mother, "Mom! Oh dear God! MO-O-O-OM!"
My grandmother enters the room, and three generations of mothers encircle Madeline to calm her and take the next steps necessary to get her help.
My heart rate is stammering and tears fill my eyes as I witness the fear in my little niece's eyes. In this moment, I am overcome by the lingering echo of four generations calling out for their mothers. As if I need yet another reminder of the strength of our family connection, I bear witness to four generations of women tied together through DNA and, more importantly, the unrelenting love we have for one another.
Whether crying out for our mothers in times of pain and fear is a result of shock, or feeling helpless like a small child and reverting back to the love and nurturing our mothers provided us when we were young, or due to some maternal connection that science actually can’t explain (whether mother and child share the same DNA or not), witnessing the reverberating cry for "Mom" between multiple generations in the same room left me changed, and reminded me that being a mother, and having a beautifully strong connection to one's mother, has to be one of the most amazing things in the entire world.
As my niece is carried to the car to be rushed to the hospital, I stand in awe of the moment we have all just witnessed. There will be other split head injuries, and worse, to which our family will attend, yet this one will forever stand out to me.
Today, I smile when I think of that horrible incident, or when I see the faint scar on my gorgeous grown niece's forehead, because it reminds me of my connection with four of the most amazing women in my life, their connection with each other as mother/s/ and daughters, and how that connection transcends time or space or physical constraint.