It’s been ten years since Mom died. It’s been ten years and a day since I last heard her voice.

I heard it at Metro Center, where I was walking to the spot where I’d wait for an Orange Line train to Vienna. My cell phone rang. It was my sister. “I thought you might want to talk to Mom. She’s feeling better.”

Mom’s voice was breathless and bubbly. She sounded girlish, giddy.

“Hi, hi,” she said. I distinctly remember that she said “hi” twice. Not because she was confused, it seemed, but because she was excited.

“Hi, Mom. I’m on my way home from work. I’ll be coming to see you tomorrow.”

My sister got back on the line and rang off. I’d be with both of them the next day; there was no need for conversation. Except that there was, because that was the last conversation.

What I’ve thought since then is that maybe those final words were a replay of the first ones. I imagine Mom holding the newborn me, looking at my baby face, cooing and smiling and saying, “hi, hi.”

Mom and I were big talkers. We could spend hours chatting, solving all the world’s problems. Could it be that the long conversation with my wonderful mother began and ended with a two-letter word, with a word that is little more than a breath?