Mother's Day

The first Mother's Day since her passing.

I am surprised by how little I feel. Or, rather, by how little I seem to be allowing myself to feel. I know the grief is there. I have had dreams in which I weep for her. More, I detect emotion…sadness…directly under the surface of my conscious awareness. It is like sensing the tremor of the fault under the apparently solid ground that supports your feet.

Why, then, do I feel, well, numb to it all? I suspect there are number of reasons. First, it is very soon. She died in March. That was only a few weeks ago. On some level I have not realized (emotionally) that she is genuinely gone.

Second, she spent two years in a state somewhere between life and death. In a way, I have already grieved for her. Or, at least, did so partially.

And, finally, I have been just so busy caring for my father and dealing with a thousand other matters that I simply haven't had time to explore my grief.

None of this, I know, is healthy. I know that, eventually, I will have to face my emotions regarding the death of my mother. It's only a question of time. Though, there's the rub. Who can say when that time will be?

*

There will be an interesting trial tomorrow. Martha has organized a small memorial service for her. It won't be large…just her, me, David, and the minister. But it will be difficult for me to repress my feelings in that setting. I hope I can, however. I do not want to weep uncontrollably in front of witnesses.

I will let you know how it works out.

Mother's Day 2013

I went across the street to see her. That is, to the Home. She was there in her chair. Her head was down. Her eyes were open. Staring. What was she thinking?

Does she think?

*

My father was there. He is always there. Always present for her. Never losing hope.

I spoke to her. She did not answer. I kissed her head. For a moment she raised her face. Her arm stirred. Her hand took mine. She held it. I could feel her fingers open and close.

Did she know what she was doing? Was there intent? Or was it only the spasm of muscle and nerve?

*


I sat on the bed. She raised her eyes to mine. What did she see? What did she perceive? How did she interpret her vision?

I visit her once a day. Usually for an hour. Sometimes, particularly on special occasions (as today) I am there a little longer.

She has good days. She has bad. On the good days, she speaks. She smiles. She will laugh. She seems to have no doubt who I am.

This is not one of the good days.

*

Today, I sat beside her. I stroked her arm. I spoke to her. She did not reply. But her gaze did not leave mine.

I have asked this before. I will ask it again. How much of her remains? How much is in there, behind those sad and beautiful eyes?

My father, in his infinite faith and immeasurable patience, assumes that all of her is there …somewhere… and that if we work hard enough and wait long enough, she will stir, awaken…speak and be as she was before.

Is this the case?

I do not know.

*

I have not my father's power. I do not have his steel and wisdom. But I will do my best to emulate him.

I will believe (I will force myself to believe) that she endures. I will believe that she is somewhere. That she exists. Maybe not in the form that sits in the chair. But someplace.

And that someday…somehow…


*

I will thus elect my reality. I will choose among the many options. I will select one rather than the others. I will operate on faith. Not facts.

I will believe.

I will believe that, eventually, she will return. Or, failing that… that her voyage and ours will once more…intersect.

*

I will believe that even in the worst possible case…

That, in some distant time, on that great bridge…that arch of white stone that spans the infinite distance…that she will hear…

That she will hear the footsteps behind her…the sound of running…the sound of those who hasten to join her.

She will hear. She will pause. She will turn.

She will greet us.

And smile.