The guest book was still there on the little table. My name was on the last page from 2019. I ran my finger over it.

Then I saw the torn hymnal page tucked under the edge of the pew cushion. It was from the Christmas section. The corner was folded down.

I picked it up and turned it over. On the back she had written in the same blue pen she used for everything.

It said Mama I saw you every year. The seat beside me stayed empty on purpose. Come sit with me this Christmas if you want.

I stood there holding that page until the janitor came back to check on me. I told him I was fine. I folded the paper and put it in my coat pocket.

I have not called her yet. I keep taking the note out and reading it again. Every time I think I am ready to pick up the phone I remember the year I hung up on her and I put it back in the drawer.

The concerts start again in three weeks. I still have not decided if I will go to the balcony or walk down to the front row.

I keep pulling that torn page out of the drawer and running my thumb along the edge where it ripped. The paper is thin and it makes a soft crinkle sound every time I open it. The blue ink has a little smear on the word “every” like her pen was running out. I can still smell the old hymnal dust on it if I hold it close to my face.

The janitor asked me again if I was all right before I left the church that day. “You sure you don’t need a glass of water or something?” he said.

I told him no thank you and that I just needed another minute. He nodded and went back downstairs with his keys jingling.

All those years I signed the book thinking nobody would ever check. Now I know she checked every time. “Mama I saw you every year” keeps running through my head in her voice. She used to say “Mama” the same way when she was little and wanted the last cookie off the plate.

I remember the exact Tuesday she called in 2004. The kitchen clock was ticking and I had just finished the dishes. She said “Mama the music feels different but it fits me better.” I told her “Your daddy would turn over in his grave.” She said “Daddy has been gone five years and you know it.” Then she said “Mama is the one who told me to go” and I set the phone down without another word.

My sister called the next morning. “You cannot just cut her off like that,” she said. I told her “Watch me.” She said “You are going to regret this one day” and I hung up on her too.