One Word

I do not write about politics in Words Not On Paper.  I could, and I would have more readers — a lot more than you few who spend your valuable time reading the little stories you find here.  But there are plenty of other places you can go if you want to read someone’s opinion.  Head on over to some social media site or watch television “news” if that sort of thing floats your boat.

That being stated, I want to make an observation on the video we have all seen.

I watched it three times before I caught something I had somehow previously missed.  Just one word:  “momma.”

At that point, I knew he was going to because he knew he was going to die.

It is more common than you might think for that one word to be among a person’s last.

I stood by my grandmother’s bed in a hospital in Birmingham, AL back in 1983.  She was 87 years old and near death, but I had not lived enough life at that point to understand that it was going to our last time together.  I bumbled around, attempting to engage her in some sort of conversation.  Things like “Hey granny, remember that time we did this or went there?”  She just listened, expressionless.

After a long silence a remarkable thing happened.  A big tear rolled down her cheek and she said, “I want my momma.”

I puzzled over that for years.  Why would she say such a thing?  She had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren.  Her mother had been dead 30 years, and it had been over 70 since she had been in her care.

Then a few years ago I read Shelby Foote’s remarkable historical narrative The Civil War.

Foote dispelled any notion of Romanticism about that war.  Most of it was fought in an old-fashioned way, in which two armies faced each other in parallel lines and charged over open ground until one or both retreated and fell back.  But the carnage was unimaginable because the weapons were not old-fashioned:  accurate repeating rifles, metal bullets, and heavy artillery.

The battles ended at sunset.  If the contest had yet to be decided, both armies regrouped and waited for dawn on either side of the killing field, with hundreds or even thousands of casualties lying in the dark between them.  The wounded and dead, intertwined and stacked like cord wood.

The historical record reveals that many of the dying cried out through the long night.  The one word heard more than any other was “momma.”

I do not know if there is a rational explanation for this.  Grown men and old women, all seeking comfort from a single word.

Perhaps the dying see what the living cannot.  Death standing there with a crooked smile and stinking breath, his bony fingers reaching toward them.  Then they need to hold momma’s hand.  To seek comfort from the one who put a Band-Aid on their skinned knee or put a cool washcloth on their forehead when they had a fever.  The one who always said, “Hush baby, it is going to be alright.” Because it always was alright.

The mystical power of one word.

Rest in peace.  In those last moments I hope you saw your momma.