My Mom died on October 12. Even though this is November 9, it's exactly 4 weeks ago today. In a year, I'll use the October 12th date as the one year anniversary but for each month that passes between now and then, I'll always remember the moment by the day of the week. Tuesday.
I'm doing quite well overall. For that admission of well being, I'll give myself a pat on the back. People say the loss of a parent is a big deal and especially the loss of one's mother. Although I grieved for several years before she died, losing her in phases and stages, slowly and relentlessly with her mental and physical deterioration, now I know for "certain sure" I can't pick up the phone and hear her voice, or visit and hold her hand, or wrap my arms around her and feel her warmth against me.
Where is she?
Why do I keep asking?
These are issues I obviously need to move through to find peaceful resolution to questions that (likely) have no answers.
I don't like the word Faith. Maybe it's because I seemingly have none.
I want so much to feel her presence and sometimes I can convince myself that I do.....but, if she's with me she's subtle, like a barely heard whisper, a gentle sensation vaguely perceptible. All potentially tricks of the mind.
I have not seen a single feather since she died, not a single one. That in itself is a bit odd. The skies are swarming with Canada geese, crows, gulls, and sparrows. I hear them calling and cawing.
Yesterday I sorted through her jewelry; organizing the small boxes and plastic cases that she'd used to store her necklaces, pins, and earrings. Everything now fits into the 1960's style train case that she used for so many years to hold not only jewelry but odd bits and pieces of her life. I found a pencil, un-sharpened, her name engraved into the wood with a piece of paper wrapped around it, secured with a rubber band. A teacher had given it to her in the 4th grade she wrote. There were also several notes tucked into various boxes with a description of the item and who had given it to her. Many were from my brother when he was a young boy. She had saved his gifts, treasured them dearly.
Sitting on the floor of my bedroom, organizing the items in that train case was emotional. For a while, the wall of tears kept me from seeing much of anything but I pushed ahead and the tears dried up. Did I feel her close by? I wish I could say yes.
Maybe I'm just not opening my heart or my ears to listen.
It's so quiet. I miss you Mom.