Call Me Kat

It was inevitable. Everyone knew the day would come, and each tried to prepare in their own way. For two years, they watched it creep into their lives, knowing the outcome but not fully grasping its eventual impact.

How had it come to this? What had triggered it?

The peaceful routine of their days ended with Ted’s departure in March. Until then, every day had been much the same as the last.

The red house had been the heart of the family for over sixty years, a sanctuary filled with laughter, love, and memories. Purchased by her and her late husband after the Great Depression, the house was small but brimming with warmth. Generations of children had played in its yard, their laughter ringing through the open windows. She often sat by the window in her old rocking chair, its cushion worn smooth from decades of use, watching the children run to her for cookies or a drink of water before returning to their games. They always paused to kiss her cheek, their love as natural as the joy in their laughter.

She cherished those sounds. Whether it was the rhythmic thud of a rubber ball against the wall or the giggles of children playing “statue” or “red light,” the yard was alive with happiness. She loved children—her own, her grandchildren, and even their friends who were always welcome in her home.

Ted, tall and lanky with the steady gait of an old movie star, was her third child and the younger of her two sons. Though a mother’s love is boundless, she shared a special bond with him that everyone in the family recognized. Her face lit up when he entered the room, and her entire being seemed to brighten in his presence. There was always a glow in her eyes when she looked at Ted—a light born from love, pride, and joy.

He had spent nearly his entire life in that home, living with her and his older brother Alfred. Although he dreamed of one day moving near the ocean, he wouldn’t leave her side. He stayed to care for her, tending to the garden, splitting firewood, and keeping the home running smoothly. His gentle soul and selfless nature endeared him to everyone, from his siblings to his nieces and nephews, for whom he was more than an uncle.

Ted never married, but he became a father figure to his sisters’ children. He never missed a birthday or a special event and was always there when needed, from lending a helping hand to bringing newborn babies home from the hospital. His kindness and calm demeanor never faltered; no one could recall him losing his temper or speaking unkindly about anyone.

But even a life well-lived is not infinite. In his later years, Ted developed a lingering cough. By Christmas, it had become clear he wouldn’t recover. Watching him weaken broke her heart. She sat in her rocker, gazing through the window but not seeing the world outside. In her mind, she saw her boy playing in the yard, laughing and full of life, growing too quickly into a soldier and then a man who had given her so much joy.

When the ambulance carried him away one final time, she knew she would never see him again. Her heart sank as the stretcher disappeared through the door. Ted lingered in the hospital for weeks, his strong frame reduced to frailty, his once-vibrant voice silenced by the breathing tube. She couldn’t travel through the heavy snow to be by his side, a reality that pained her more than words could express.

On a snowy night just after midnight, Ted passed away. She already knew before she was told. A mother knows.

The light in her eyes—the one that always sparkled when she looked at him—went out that night. Without it, her presence changed. The warmth and vitality she had exuded faded, replaced by a quiet stillness. Though she remained with the family for two more years, the absence of that light marked the beginning of her decline.

In those final years, she taught Alfred how to cook and care for the house, ensuring he could manage on his own. As her health faded, she spent most of her time in her bedroom, clutching her oversized rosary, its grape-sized beads worn smooth by years of nightly prayers.

The rocking chair by the window sat empty now. The days and nights blurred together until the inevitable day came. Like her beloved son, she was carried from the home on a stretcher.

On Sunday, December 4, 1994, the light that had brightened her life—and the lives of everyone around her—was gone. The red house, once alive with laughter and love, stood quiet, filled only with memories of her enduring presence and the glow that was lost when she looked at Ted for the last time.