Friday, May 24, 2002
Mom told me about a dream she had this past week. In the dream, it was dark. No light. She could sense the presence of two others near her. She knew one of them was Dad. She didn't know who the other person was. She was standing alone. Dad and the other person were standing together, across from her. She was facing towards them. At one point, Dad reached out his hand, and she raised hers to take his. She felt a desire to be with him...to go with him. As she was thinking this, Dad let go of her hand. She didn't know why. She told me she can only think it was his way of saying, he had to go, but she couldn't come...that it wasn't her time yet.
Or maybe, Dad was trying to tell her goodbye. To let him go...
Tuesday, May 07, 2002
It's my birthday this Friday. I'll be 43 years old. I remember when my Mother was 43! This Sunday is Mother's Day. I was born on Mother's Day.
I'll be leaving Thursday for a long-anticipated holiday with my daughter and her family. I'll be seeing her graduate from college. Hard to believe. I remember the day I came home, tired and bedraggled, VERY unsure of myself as a new mother, with this little lump with blue eyes and golden downy hair on her little head, wiggling and looking at me...As if I knew what to do! But she trusted me, so I pulled myself together and stumbled along as best as I could, learning as I went by the seat of my pants. Making mistakes, I also tried to be open and honest about them.
So much has happened since then. One thing for sure, there's never been a dull moment with Eva. She's been the most fascinating person to watch grow into herself. So many wonderful things to come yet.
Mom has often said similiar things. Remembering me and my sisters when we were young, when her and Dad were young parents. It's said with a mixture of happiness and sadness. Happiness because of the blessing of those experiences, sadness because they are long in the past, and so bittersweet when reality of her present forces itself in front of those memories.
Monday, May 06, 2002
Life goes on.................
As hard as it might be these are my thoughts for Mom:
Whether we are experiencing the death of a loved one, an ended relationship, or grief for the past, as incomprehensible as it may seem, life DOES go on. Hardships may indeed befall us, but the ebb and flow of life
energy prods us to survive.
Indeed there is a time to mourn, but there is also a time for tears to dry. As does the sweet scent of the poppy linger in the air, the warm memories and love for those we have lost will remain always safe in our hearts.
Life is about living.
It was hard for me this past weekend, seeing all the things that Mom and Dad cherished all their lives. I cried many tears and mourned my loss of my Daddy. I know as I go through and unpack their belongings, more will come. I smelled Dad's hats and remembered his smell. I cried. I fumbled through the little boxes that meant so much to him the last few years and wanted him to be there...........
It is so true that you never realize how much you love someone until they're gone. And, it is also true, that I never realized how lucky I was to have parents like I had.
What I also want to convey is that we need to try and bolster Mom up and help her get on with living. I am going to try being a little tougher on her - gently of course.
But - life does go on and there is a time for tears to dry.
Friday, May 03, 2002
Some Things You Keep
Some things you keep. Like good teeth. Warm coats. Bald husbands. They're good for you, reliable and practical and so sublime that to throw them away would make the garbage man a thief. So you hang on, because something old is sometimes better than something new, and what you know often better than a stranger.
These are my thoughts, they make me sound old, old and tame and dull at a time when everybody else is risky and racy and flashing all that's new and improved in their lives. New spouses, new careers, new thighs, new lips. The world is dizzy with trade-ins. I could keep track, but I don't think I want to.
I grew up in the fifties with practical parents - a mother, God bless her who washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, then re-used it- and still does. A father who was happier getting old shoes fixed than buying new ones.
They weren't poor, my parents, they were just satisfied. Their marriage was good, their dreams focused. Their best friends lived barely a wave away. I can see them now, Fifties couples in Bermuda shorts and Banlon sweaters, lawnmower in one hand, tools in the other. The tools were for fixing things - a curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress. Things you keep. It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that re-fixing, re-heating, re-newing, I wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste meant affluence. Throwing things away meant there'd always be more.
But then my father died, and on that clear autumn night, in the chill of the hospital room, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't any 'more'. Sometimes what you care about most gets all used up and goes away, never to return.
So, while you have it, it's best to love it and care for it and fix it when it's broken and heal it when it's sick. That's true for marriage and old cars and children with bad report cards and dogs with bad hips. You keep them because they're worth it, because you're worth it.