For my mother, Ruth Sparling

In the hospital on the hill, where 9,000 people work, I found a place to be alone.

I saw it from my mother's room in the Intensive Care Unit. Her room looked east over the city and the Willamette River. In the foreground, far below, were various medical buildings. The nearest, many stories down, was a parking garage. It was Sunday and the top floor was empty.

My mother's two windows were shaded with blinds. I lowered one eight inches and left the other up. Stepping back, I touched my mother's forehead and told her once more that I loved her. Her eyes did not open; she did not know I was there.

Leaving the ICU, I drove to the parking garage, opened the trunk and put on my rollerblades. Alone among thousands, I skated a kind of spirit dance for her, to commemorate her journey...to honor her and us.

By the end, I felt her with me. Looking up, I scanned a dozen rows of windows and found the pair with mismatched shades. My mom's room. I closed my eyes then, kept my head raised in her direction and left my mind open. My mother lay somewhere up there, in Room 14, leaving on her journey. What entered my mind was music, this phrase:

"It seems like yesterday, but it was long ago..."

Long ago, when I was a child and she comforted me...

Music has the power to move us because it holds the power of love. My mother loved all kinds of music -- marching bands and Danny Kaye and many others, including Bob Seger, in part because I loved Bob Seger and I was her son.

She shared and taught that love of music to me, and so much more. Skating alone, but not alone, I feel the blessing of her love. I feel her leaving and her love enduring. I feel her love with me yesterday and long ago and for all the days to come.

January 1, 2000

The view from Room 14.

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