I visited a concert of Ben Caplan on the 31st of October in my home city of Amsterdam. I remember it was a good concert, but I also remembered something else. The time of not so great remembering for me was a phone call I got right before it started: my father was telling me in no uncertain terms my mother was very ill.
My mother was always fond of music, just not always the right kind. When I was young she liked Christian choir singing praises to the Lord on Sunday morning. As I got older this faded a bit and instead she listened to piano music. When I was old enough to understand what it was about, I took her to the opera. Together we had subscriptions to the opera in Amsterdam.
I was in my rebel phase, and was wearing a pair of army boots and a leather jacket. Of course going to the opera didn’t make me elite: no… instead I was putting my big black shoes over the side of the balcony, telling everyone they could kiss my sweet bottom. Posturing of course, and my mother knew it. But she never said anything. She respected me and my phase, and maybe thought it was a bit funny.
I never asked, and now I never can. In a bit less than two months after the phone call, she died. Rest in peace mom, and thanks for all these beautiful moments.