Mother’s Song
A Lullaby Passed Down from Generation to Generation
October 1942: the beginning of a lullaby tradition. Photo by Yehuda Bar-Or
STORY BY
DR. NURIT ISRAELI
Photos courtesy of
IDr. Nurit Israeli n a workshop dedicated to
the significance and impact of
childhood memories, I asked
participants about their fondest
memories with their mothers.
Several participants, of different
age groups and cultural backgrounds,
spoke of their mothers
singing to them, particularly lullabies.
There is power in lullabies.
Something distinctly intimate
happens at bedtime, during those
last moments before sleep takes
over, when the lights are switched
off, and a soothing melody—sung
just for you—transports you to
the Land of Nod. Lullabies tend
to evoke memories of mothers.
So, in honor of the approaching
Mother’s Day, here are my lullaby
memories.
THE BRAHMS LULLABY
“Behind all your stories is
always your mother’s story,
because hers is where yours
begins.”
~Mitch Albom
At night, drifting off to sleep, I
can sometimes still hear my mother’s
soft voice singing her made-forme
version of the Brahms Lullaby.
Though she is long gone, I still
remember her verses from bygone
days, guiding me to close my eyes:
“like the little bird already
asleep
on the branch of a tree.”
Her verses promised, in times
of wars and uncertainty, a brighter
tomorrow:
“and tomorrow, you’ll
wake up
to a happy new day.”
Tomorrows came, some bright
some not, and I fed the verses of
the Brahms Lullaby to my children.
My mother used to sing it to them
too, and when we moved to the
United States, I brought along a
recording of their grandmother’s
lullaby for them.
Years flew by and, for my grandchildren,
I translated the Hebrew
verses into English (my mother
translated the original German verses
into Hebrew). I sang the Brahms
Lullaby to them in both Hebrew
and English—my English version
an amendment for a new world.
Time continued to pass rapidly,
and during my mother’s last
days, remaining by her deathbed
as she was drifting off, I sang the
Brahms Lullaby to her again and
again. Her face seemed to soften
as she listened. She also seemed
to respond when my daughter, her
granddaughter, sang the lullaby to
her from across the ocean via a
telephone I held to her ear.
And on mother’s last day, on a
spring Friday afternoon just before
Mother’s Day, I—on the cusp of
orphanhood—held a comatose
mother and sang the Brahms Lullaby
to her for the last time. I made up
new verses for the melody we both
loved, A Lullaby for Mother:
“Good night mama, go to
sleep,
the time has come,
I am here watching over you,
and tomorrow, you’ll
wake up…”
I faltered at the verses about
waking up again, but resolved
that somewhere, in some way, she
would—to some other life…
A soft sun was setting through
the window as I sang, sending us
its last glints of gold; the daffodils
which filled the room with the
grace of spring were still young; and
the photos by mom’s bed went on
telling her story. I longed for the sun
to linger. But light must give way,
and I reveled in the way mom’s last
sunset faded, how it caressed her
face, both of them glowing, before
slipping away beyond reach.
More tomorrows came and went.
The children became adults, the
grandchildren, too, grew up (oh, so
quickly…), and I am still haunted
by the Brahms Lullaby. I cherish the
memories of us singing this spellbinding
melody to one another, adapting
it to meet changing times: Multiple
versions of homemade lyrics, ferried
across oceans and languages, delivering
a promise, regardless…
“and tomorrow, you'll wake up
to a happy new day.”
A lullaby for all ages
Photo by Dr. Ron Israeli
May 2018 ¢ NORTH SHORE TOWERS COURIER 37