(I wrote this 2 years ago. I still miss her.)
My mom has been gone four years now. Four years. Four years. I loved my mom. And now, even now, I can’t believe I’ll never see her again.
The first few days after she passed were a blur. We had just gotten home from years in Europe and hadn’t
even unpacked all our stuff yet. I didn’t have clothes for a funeral. None of us did. I remember holding it all together through the details, tearing up occasionally as emotion welled to the surface. But…I just didn’t have time to cry. I did what I had to do to get through. People needed me. And I was afraid to let it all go for fear of the force of what lay hidden within me.
The next few months were…weird. I kept waking up at 3am with a compulsion to clean house. I felt so much better when a friend told me she did the same thing after her daughter died. My grief was, at least in this circumstance, normal. Whatever that is. But still, somehow I needed at that time to know I was…normal. Because so much of my life did not feel normal.
Grief continued to rear its head unexpectedly as time marched on. Sometimes I would call dad’s answering machine, just to hear her voice. And I remember the first call after he changed it. Reading her handwriting on notes left around the house…looking at photos of all of us…fragrances that brought her to mind. All pushed something deep within me, something I was often afraid to say hello to for fear it would never leave.
As the years pass, I see how our family has this huge hole in it, one we still haven’t figured out how to navigate. I began to realize that all I had lost wasn’t in the past, but in the future also. My kids weren’t going to have a grandmother. Abby would have no memories of her. I wasn’t going to have a mom anymore. I was the mom. Christmas, Thanksgiving, birthdays…all different. Lacking.
I live in her house… although I guess it is my house now. I had a dream a while back where she looked like herself, when she was still healthy. She was wearing purple, just like she said she would do when she got old. She spoke to me. I realized I hadn’t heard her voice, the voice that lived with me every day of my life, in four years. It felt so familiar, like a part of my brain that had been asleep for a while, woke up. She said something to me I never heard her say in life, but needed desperately to hear. I tried so hard not to wake up, to stay there with her for a while. I couldn’t. She slipped away again.
Just the other day I looked out in the backyard and saw some stray roses blooming. Beautiful pink and red roses she planted with her own hands and loved. Just like my life that now blooms here also – she planted and loved that too. I wept. And wept. Then sobbed. So random. So not random.
I am learning how grief is this funny, freaky thing. It has a life of its own. It will not be dictated to or controlled. It comes and goes when it chooses, yet never really seems to leave. Sometimes I think it is my friend, giving immense relief to the pressure of my inner world. Some days though, I am not sure. I can cooperate with it, letting it have its way when it shows up – or I can try to swallow it. Swallowing grief however, is a bitter pill… doing more damage than help. I am finding it is much healthier for me when it stops by for a visit, to sit with it a while . Maybe have coffee or tea together. Then, let it drift off again to wherever it goes when it isn’t front and center.
Doors to the past may close, never to be opened again. But they are often made of glass. I can still see what lies behind them, always in view, but out of reach.
(originally published 9/13/12)