Lonely People

Hold Me Again

I hate Halloween. While children dressed up and went door-to-door searching for candy, I locked myself in my room and cried. Halloween was, mythologically, supposed to be the day where the border between the realms of the living and the dead was the thinnest. Spirits could cross over to the living, but, as it happens, Halloween was the day the spirit of my Mother crossed over into the realm of the dead.

Mary McCartney died on the thirty-first of October, 1956. She was a loving mother, the greatest mother anyone could ask for. I was thirteen when she died. Paul was fourteen while Michael was only twelve. We were all so young, too young to go through such a tragedy.

I still remember the day it happened. Mum had gone into surgery to try and stop cancer from spreading, but it didn't work. I remember Dad sitting us down and telling us. He did his best to hold back his tears, but it was impossible when the person you loved most in the world was gone forever. He began to sob while I stared at him. Michael understood immediately and dove into Dad's arms to sob with him. Paul and I simply stared. It hit Paul first, soon he was in Dad's arms as well, but I simply sat there. I couldn't wrap my mind around the fact that my mother was dead. I remember watching the door every night for the next two months just waiting for her to walk in and tell me it was all a dream.

She never did.

Each Halloween served as a painful reminder that I would never see her again. I would never hear her voice whenever she sang me to sleep or feel her warmth whenever she hugged me. Never again would I feel the love of my mother. All I wanted was for her to hold me again and tell me again how she loved me.

I sat on my bed, scratching the words to a song. It had hit me that morning, and the words were flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup. A hurricane of words stormed from my mind and onto the paper with swift movements of my hand. In under an hour, I had a song.

Emotions were a writer's greatest weapons, especially a songwriter. You write what you know, and you know what you feel better than anyone. A good writer can channel their emotions into their work, perhaps even working to relieve a bit of stress along with it. They can convey any meaning they want in just one paper. 

It wasn't the first song I had written about my mother. I had several locked away in a binder where no one could ever see them. This one seemed different, it was special. Eight years after her death, I finally wrote the song that would stand as my ever-lasting tribute to her.

"Melly?" a voice called.

I closed the notebook and sighed, "You don't have to knock, Molly."

She opened the door and stepped inside, careful to shut it behind her. I had yet to leave all day. She had seen me in this state before. I always got this way on Halloween, and Molly's been there each time for the past six years. She knew how I could get, and she knew what I would do if someone wasn't there to hold me back.

Without a single word, she sat behind me and pulled me to her. I practically fell into her lap. My upper torso was on her lap while I held her stomach. She stroked my hair and leaned in to kiss my temple, "It's going to be alright."

"I miss her so much," I whimpered.

Most people would start crying. They would cry for themselves, not the one they lost, but I couldn't find it. It seemed as if I had cried all of the tears I could for my mother.

"I know you do," Molly replied, "Someone once told me that, when someone you love dies, you're left with grief and memories. It's the memories and the love you have for your mother that will get you through a life without her. Hold onto the happy memories and let them be the light in your darkness."