Dear Mom,
It’s been nine years. A long, but short nine years. Long because you’ve missed so much…so many: birthdays, holidays, graduations, games and wins, Sunday dinners and family vacations. Short because there are still days I wake up and think I’ve got to remember to tell you my overnight dream. Remember how much you loved those commute recountings? Things will happen, big and small, and I’ll reach for the phone to call you. I’ll be happy or sad and you’re the one with whom I want to celebrate or commiserate. Then it’ll hit me all over again: you’re gone. Wait…not just gone. Gone for almost a decade now.
That’s a long time to be missing someone. So many people that belong to this club to which I am a reluctant card carrying member told me that it gets easier, but the only change I can attest to is that it’s different. Immediate grief is gut wrenching. Nine year old grief is soul sucking. There is a distinct difference. When you were first gone from me I was writhing in physical and emotional pain. Today I am haunted by it. It’s like a ghost, but at times I feel like the apparition…a less solid, assured version of myself. I’m a hint more fragile and fearful having lived through your death.
Every year this week, which kicks off with your last birthday and culminates in your last day on earth, sneaks up on me. I realize how silly this sounds since these anniversaries are an annual occurrence. Honestly, it’s not the dates that catch me by surprise: just the feelings. Nine years ago when we celebrated your sixtieth birthday with champagne and roses, with burgers and balloons, with a neighborhood of friends and a tribe of loved ones I remember feeling joy. That seems crazy to me now because I knew it was not only going to be your last birthday, but also your last days, period. In looking back, I recognize this as your final gift to all who gathered to celebrate you. You were radiantly alive, present and happy, and we could all feel it and wanted to join in. It didn’t matter that you were confined to a hospital bed, or that you had no hair. All that mattered was that your heart was full of love and grace. That was your parting gift.
You rallied all day long. The next day, you started slipping away. Seven days later I held your hand and told you it was OK to go. I wanted to take those words back the minute I uttered them. It was so not OK, but then it was beautiful to see peace come to and through you. A final declaration of love and appreciation. A long gaze. A tight squeeze. A last breath. An end to suffering.
An end to your suffering.
The beginning of life without you.
A life that wasn’t pretty at first, but one that’s become its own masterpiece. A colorful, beautiful, complicated collage. A rich, dynamic, multi-layered composition that is tangible proof that there is love and beauty after terrible loss.
I want to thank you Mom because I’m as much a warrior as I am a ghost. My strength comes from deep within, but you planted the seeds. You were the first woman warrior I witnessed. Though the thing is… you weren’t all bold bristle and brawn. You had a big and soft heart for anyone and everyone.
Happy Birthday to you in Heaven Mom. I hope you still know how very much I miss you. Wink wink. And thank you for sending the hummingbird yesterday. It took me by happy surprise. I’ll keep my eyes open for bluebirds and my ears open for owls today.
I love you,
Krissy
No comments:
Post a Comment