I feel her in the maybe

I’ve written a great deal in the two and a half months since my mother died. I’ve thought about making that writing public and polished many times, wondered about how and when and if I would. So much of my life and its learnings have been reflected upon and shared through writing, but I’ve hesitated to set the days surrounding her death into published stone – so much of the journey after loss is walked in quiet, solo steps, and grieving can’t be summarized in a sentence.

And yet I’ve also wondered: what if, rather than keep these words behind closed doors of privacy, rather than wait to craft clear conclusions that may never come, rather than deny how humans might be most connected by the vulnerability we so rarely reveal, what if we were open? What if we let others walk with us, even if from a distance? What if we let our complexity shine out, rather than close off and cage us? What if we stood in our reality, and let it be?

I think that’s what she would have done.

So what if I said: my mother, the human who shaped and grew me, died two and a half months ago and this is what was in me in the before, during, and after?

___

Before.

Today. April 23^rd, 2017.

I think I’ll feel her in the sun.

Today. April 24^th, 2017.

“Trees fall over and die, and somehow, new life always arises. So I am not afraid.”

– Mama

I too am not afraid – for her, for me, for us. Sad, of course. But curious, too, and peaceful. I wonder sometimes if it’s wrong to feel so steady and clear in this moment, if it’s indicative of my not fully processing what’s taking place. But I wonder, too, if the opposite could also be true; maybe I am steady because I am standing in the eye of the hurricane, fiercely knowing the truth around me, and still dancing.

___

During.

There are things I think I’ll want to remember about this time of ushering. It’s odd to find yourself in a place of so peacefully helping your mother to die. It’s like we’re all carefully ushering the boat along until it’s finally released off shore. And there’s something quite lovely about it, in some regards – the way we are capable of accompanying one another even as they leave this world, the way my father and I have formed a team around caring for her, the way it all simplifies at the end.

Today. May 5^th, 2017.

She’s getting ready for bed, still insistent she can brush her teeth on her own though it takes her twenty minutes, and she walks out of the bathroom. As dad removes her robe from her shoulders, she says “you know there are occasional moments of guilt.” And we ask her what she means and she says “well I haven’t been to Walmart so it’s not that bad, but I do feel guilty that I can’t get the water turned off and so I let it run while I’m brushing my teeth now.”

Today. May 6^th, 2017.

“Come, Callie, bring that book so we can pick out what star nebula I’ll be when I’m gone.”

Today. May 7^th, 2017.

A cardinal flew into the window this afternoon, high speed, thwack. It whizzed, dizzy, to the deck below, seizing at first. Then, just the head: jerking up, jerking toward motion. Then, just the beak: pointed upward, opening and closing, mewing, if it could. Then still.

Everyone is gasping and asking and clamoring to see. Then, big declarations of his demise. I look over, and she’s awake, one of the 15 minutes today when her eyes were fully open. And I swear I see tears in them.

Today. May 9^th, 2017.

6AM

I sit here, with the rain in rhythm all around us, she peaceful, I listening for the waning breaths. And I know, somehow, we will be okay. And repeating in my head are the words: it was the greatest honor to have been raised by you; see you in the sunlight now.

You can do this hard thing.

6:30AM

I’m glad to be a part, a witness of this morning – how the light is beginning to rise around her, the leaves taking shape in the dark, the birds waking in the rain.

___

After.

Today. May 11^th, 2017.

Regret, anger, unfairness, clinging, anguish – I don’t feel any of these. I feel grateful, incredibly so. Every moment is a new revelation of missing. But I’m not in distress over what’s lost in the future, I’m just overwhelmed with gratitude for what has been. And I think I have her to thank for being here.

Today. May 13^th, 2017.

It’s true that every moment our closeness reveals a new kind of missing – revelations I imagine will follow me the rest of my life. But to me, our closeness does not make me weaker in these moments, but rather they make me stronger. I know who she was, where she still is, and how she exists in me. I know how she valued mystery, so wondering where her soul and spirit are is a comfort, not a fear. I know she would want me to keep close to the sun and that she would turn to the trees for wisdom as well. I don’t need to be told she lives in me; I’ve felt her there all along.

Today. May 17^th, 2017.

It’s all very nice and good to be together. I smile to think of so many coming, at our jokes about her haunting us, at the strength I feel within me. But then we get to the end of the day, and though I don’t want to live as though I’m grasping, and though I’ve smiled and we’re surviving, I still would rather just have her here.

Today, May 19^th, 2017.

I think rather than in one particular piece of the world – the sun, trees, birds, rush of wind – I find her most in the mystery, in the act of wondering, without asking, where she’s floating now.

Nothing is ever one thing and she was never one for answers.

Today. June 5^th, 2017.

I feel her in the maybe – maybe in the sun, maybe in the cardinal, maybe those trees, maybe.