Traces

It’s midnight now, and Herbie and I are competing for space on Craig’s old twin bed, while Erin types. Her staccato reminds me of our days in college, when we’d spend our nights (read early mornings) frantically typing papers for the next morning. As I listen to her uneven rhythm, I can’t help but think she’d do well as background music to some spoken word performance. I tried writing earlier but succumbed to writer’s block. Lately, I find myself fumbling for words, or worse, completely blank. I’m still walking straight-arm in a room full of nothing, feeling my way as I go. I can’t shake the feeling that Mom’s simply away at a conference, and soon will be walking through the door, like always.

 

Returning home after spending nearly two months in Denver has been difficult; I have the sense we left something behind. Yet, as life tends to happen, we’ve essentially picked up where we left off. We awake for breakfast, chit-chat about random things, like the culling of mustangs in Nevada, and otherwise, get on with it. Life has seemingly returned to normal, with us settling into routines of bland variation within sameness. It'd all seem the same, if not for the fact that Mom is gone. And scattered throughout the house are little reminders of her life with us.

 

Every day since returning home, I’ve found myself shambling back to her room, where we would congregate most nights for our evening wind-downs. She’d inevitably be going to the bathroom or tucking herself in, yet we’d be there, ever the bother, giggling about something we did or that she said. I suppose the fact we wanted to be around her was telling of our love for her -- most young adults would rather scram than spend their evenings with their parents. But, to avoid our nighttime get togethers was to miss out on Mom’s best material, where she’d put her God given nickname, Mary Malaprop, to good use.

 

That she’s now gone is unmistakable. Faint lines mark the area where her portable bed once stood – the bed we’d tuck her into each night. On her dresser is a half-read Patricia Cornwall book; a book marker identifies Mom’s last page. So many nights have ended in laughter; the silence now seems, at best, awkward. It’s hard to believe that, just two weeks ago, we were in Denver with Mom. How quickly the days have passed. Since arriving in Denver last Monday, we've been busy making funeral arrangements, interfacing with Craig’s doctor, meeting with Ministers, solidifying plans for last Saturday’s service, and so on. The details in arranging the service were overwhelming, but manageable, if only for the help of our friends, neighbors, and family, who flew in midweek for the service. Indeed, to be able to pass along elements of our “to-do” list was perhaps the greatest gift; it allowed us to focus our energy on the more intimate details of Mom’s service – all of which turned out beautifully, complete with classical guitar renditions of her favorite songs.

 

 

 

 

Having our family here made me feel like Mom was still with us. I can see her in her sibling’s mannerisms, in their Kennedy expressions, and in their humor. They provided support when it was needed, space when it was appropriate, and a nice distraction when we needed something to keep our minds busy. For that, I’ll be forever grateful.

 

Last week reminded me that love is something you cultivate and, if lucky, keep with you always. Mom lives on in our love for each other, and in our memories. Though the traces of her scattered throughout our house and in her sibling’s smiles are hard reminders of her passing, they’re also lifelines to her just when I feel like I’m drifting away. Soon, the days will get easier. What happens next will adapt to fit what happened before; so too, shall I. -- J