In the months following Mom’s death in February 2021, I tried to get her to say something to me, to speak to me. If anyone could communicate from beyond, I thought, it was her.
She was always good about letting me know where she was, a habit I imagine she formed when I was child. In our quiet house on the Penobscot Nation, I would call out to see if she was still home, still with me. After I became an adult, I’d call her house phone or cell and wait for the voice mail that would say something like “Morgan, if you’re trying to reach me, I’m out grocery shopping,” or “Honey, I’m not feeling well. You know where I am,” and I’d call the number that would connect us, each in different places but the power of language helping us find one another.
