Lasting Legacy

The cat's had my tongue. It's not often that I'm at a total loss for words, but it's not unusual for a lull to strike this time each year. This time being the change of seasons and the week of my mom's last birthday followed by her last day on earth exactly 7 days later. It's a whole lot. And while I don't feel particularly overcome or overwhelmed this year, I have a persistent heaviness of heart. I'm pretty sure I've been in denial over the autumnal equinox and the fact that we've blown clear through September. Where has the month gone? How has it been twelve years I've been without my mom? I'm more stunned than sad.

On my way to my mom's birthday mass, my first time in church since this pandemic, I started to acquiesce. Acceptance is always a dance. I cued up my Watermark and let the tears fall. It was a beautiful, much needed release. At a stop light, I noticed the driver next to me appear slightly startled by my full on singing through tears. My windows were up. Yes, I was that loud. And completely unapologetic or chagrined.

Candace and I walked from her place to our church on the most quintessential almost fall day. It was the same kind of perfection that characterized the day we celebrated my mom's 60th twelve long short years ago. I found the familiar sunny skies and slightest southerly breeze comforting. We joined the other handful of midday parishioners mask-clad and much more than 6 feet apart. It was strange, but also encouraging. I experienced a flashback in the middle of mass when through the open door of the church in the middle of the city, all I heard was a chorus of lawnmowers. It reminded me of moments after my mom's death when I honed in on all the bustling neighborhood sounds. I couldn't fathom that her neighbors were doing yard work, taking walks, living life like any other beautiful Sunday. That little voice in my head was whispering, Don't you know my mom's dead? How can you care about gardens and hedges? How can you be working and playing and going on? Only the ambient noises of everyday life were no longer an assault twelve years later. They were a reminder that, indeed, life goes on. Good and ordinary and beautiful life.

On the walk back to Candace's, we decided that Kathy knew she was leaving us both in good hands in one another's company. She's a constant and important part of our divine friendship. We toasted McGurk with the blood of Christ on Candace's patio just the two three of us. We told stories, some often told and some for the first time. It's what we do: honor, remember, share sorrow and give thanks for the gifts. The gifts of mothers and friends and unconditional love. That's quite a lasting legacy.