September 09, 2005
It was not I who experienced the death of my best friend, my mentor, my biggest fan, my reason for being in this world; my beloved mother.It was, indeed, not my day to sit silently and patiently or to beg the sighs that would have surely swelled within my chest or to hope that they might relinquish their embrace, as I embraced the delicate hand of my own dying mother. It was not I who remained sedentary as the hours, listless, passed, and it was not my mother, still beautiful despite respose and each breathing hose, who gently faded away into a surreal moment just before the afternoon.
This was not the lady who had taught me to tie my shoes in a different way from the rest of my Kindegarten class or who had influenced my peculiar pronunciation of 'aunt' so that it might not sound an inkling like that of the insect. This was the same person who had healed my every wound or listened endlessly to my endless chatter as a child or as an adult. This was not her or anyone I've ever even met before, but this still was, most certainly, someone's dear and loving mother.
In some ways, it did not have to be me.
I struggled just the same.
I struggled with the tears and the absolute sense of displacement and the loss within my soul. I fought against the rage of questions, the frustration of a perfect ease as she was no longer battling against her pain and the hate that I could no longer be gathered up within her adoring arms. I wanted to collapse and I wanted to break down. I wanted to remind her of how much she has always meant, with every glimpse of sunlight and within every shadow I strolled under through the years. I wanted to shout out above the raging thunder in my mind that she will always be remembered and I wanted her to hear it and feel it and to take it with her -- though none of these things, I knew, could she do.
Most luckily and gratefully, I can relay to you, that my mother is still here. Perhaps she is seated upon one of the plaid patterned chairs that adorn my parent's deck which overlooks the lake. She might be sipping a glass of red wine Cabernet, with one leg crossed gracefully over the other, and commenting to my father that we surely could have used more rain but that she was glad, just then, that it had not rained so much since nothing could compare to this glory of an evening.
Indeed, nothing could compare to this glorious night...
Save for, perhaps, the endless love I hold etched upon my heart for my best friend, my mentor, my biggest fan, my reason for being in the first; my beloved mother.