– Isa Nye (she/her)

My mother-in-law arrived last week, a box of ashes. In the last voicemail I have from her, she’s telling me about the train tickets she bought to come visit. She splurged on a sleeper car. But that trip would not happen. She felt ill. My father-in-law drove her to the hospital. She didn’t leave. I can still hear her voice on the phone, straining, pained, “I have Covid.” She died in the ICU. 

This wasn’t the way we thought she’d arrive for her last visit, not as ash. We gather around the box, and imagine her with us, picture her smile, her love. She was always so happy to be with us in our home. We picture her stirring soup in the kitchen, curled up on the couch with a book, painting a picture with the grandkids at the table. We picture her ready smile, her laughter, imagine her hugging us. 

She’d had to cancel her flight tickets in March, waiting to come once the risk of Covid dwindled. We saw the numbers drop in other countries, but not here. They just kept climbing. We stayed in touch with phone calls and face times, but it hurt to be apart when we so wanted to be together. By now the US has more deaths than any other country in the world. That fact drops down heavy on me, more deaths than any other country in the world, her death one among them. 

We didn’t get to be with her at the end. We spoke with a nurse who told us she would stay by the bed so my mother-in-law would not be alone for her last moments on earth. The nurse cried on the phone when she told us this. She had recently lost a family member to Covid too, and could not be at their side to say goodbye. She knew our pain. It was not the goodbye we imagined. We place the ashes on the shelf. We ache with the hole in our lives where she had once been. We picture her here. 

We put on the masks she sewed us to run our errands. We picture her sewing them. We dream of hugging family again, of mourning together. We moan momma in our minds. Momma, momma, momma. Momma, we miss you.