The time was 12:13 p.m. when Mary Finlay Martin quit breathing. I was holding her hand when it happened.
The silence that follows death is overpowering. It was the loudest silence I ever heard. Like a hurricane of quiet, swallowing the world.
At first we said nothing. We simply looked at her body. Then the crying started. My wife’s mouth fell open but no sound came out. And I was still holding that slackened hand.
I stared at that hand for a long time.
Mother Mary was my mother-in-law. She was my friend. She was my comrade in troublemaking. She was my drinking buddy. Most guys aren’t all that crazy about their mothers-in-law, but I was.
She was every elderly woman you’ve met before. You’ve known hundreds of Marys in your lifetime. Maybe thousands.
She had the Merle Norman face, the Estée Lauder scent, and the Talbots clearance-rack wardrobe. She was everything marvelous about the unique brand of female who inhabits the Southeastern United States.
Her hair was snow white with hues of violet. Her voice
was Vivien Leigh, her eyes were Natalie Wood, her personality was Shirley Temple.
I’m not going to sit here and tell you she was a saint, because that would be untrue. And anyway, saints aren’t fun loving people like she was. Saints sit far away like statues. Saints belong in flower gardens and in ornate basilicas. No, this woman was real. And she was something else.
She was equally at home in a Civic League meeting as she was sitting on a deer stand. She could dance in a juke joint; she could host a Methodist banquet that would’ve made Emily Post look like a hack. She was fun. She was quirky. And above all, she was ours.
But right now as I look around her house, I see nothing but orphaned objects.
I see a supper table without an owner. I see a…