Mum’s voice is like no other.  Even now in the nursing home, a shadow of the woman she was, her voice is just the same; softer perhaps, a little faltering, but obviously mum. 

She can’t see far, but somehow recognizes me from quite a distance and makes her way toward me.  Her hand reaches for my face, and she asks, ‘where have you been my son?  I’ve been waiting for you.’   

Often I visit out of obligation, but deep inside I know I want to spend time just with her.  I miss my mother, and can easily banish the thought that she will die someday, perhaps sooner than later.  But often my hand goes to my heart when allowing myself to fear she may not live much longer. 

When sitting together I wait for her to speak.  It’s her voice I want to hear;   the one I have heard for longer than I remember.  The voice that re-assures me, sometimes chastises me, always loves me.  It settles me even after the longest day.  I tell her I love her, that she has been a good mother, and she constantly reminds me, ‘You only have one mother’. 

Only mum speaks with that timbre, that turn of phrase.  Switching between Greek and English I don’t hear the language, only her sound and what I think is the intent behind the words.  Several times during the hour or so we spend together she asks me how I am: whether I am earning enough to get by, how Wendy (my partner) is.  And the predictable question is not far away: “when will you marry her so ‘this situation’ can be sorted out” (‘this situation’ meaning living defacto). 

Her voice registers with me across a crowded room, not because it’s loud or piercing but because it is hers.  “Nick, Nick, where are you?”  My ears prick up, sensing her anxiety.  Walking towards her I catch her eye.  She complains about the buzzing inside her head.  I think it’s the effects of  dementia upsetting her.  So, gently I massage her scalp, and her face begins to soften with the relaxation it brings on.

My impatience can get the better of me, and she can read my mind and knows when I am angling to leave.  I say I’ll pick her up later, or that she has been invited to stay the night, and that a meal will be prepared for her soon.  But she gets scared and demands I take her home, that she doesn’t want to stay with all these old people.  

I rise to leave and her eyes widen, her voice rises and she says ‘don’t leave me, don’t leave me’ and I have to tear myself away.  By the time I reach the car I feel guilty and relieved to have got away.  But I’m also happy because she is being taken care of here, she is safe, and that’s what I want for my mother.