It has be ten years since Mom passed away. I am overwhelmed by this time marker. Part of me cannot fathom that it has been
more than a week. It feels fresh and raw
and nonsensical. Then, there is the
other half of the (much too tart and burnt) pie—it feels like decades. So much has happened since that winter
day: marriage, moves, sweet babies, a
stroke, Dad moving in and out, a miscarriage, new homes, new jobs. I am not sure how I have managed to keep moving
forward. Jeremy found me in bed crying
the other day. I mumbled something about
always having such immense feeling about all things and nothing at all. As always, he validated, consoled and weaved
the kindest version of his humor into my tender being.
On the eve of her anniversary, we drove homeward. The car was packed full of Christmas presents
and a quiet undercurrent of heartache. My
strong need for emotional stability is always ruffled by the events that
transpire between the 20th of December and New Year’s Day. Within the timeframe of a week and half, we
have my brother's birthday, the anniversary of Mom’s passing, Christmas Eve
anticipation, Christmas hullabaloo and the inconsequential events that transpire
before the shiny ball of New Year’s eagerness dropping. With the bustle of the holiday madness, we
always make the time to be together to honor Mom on the 23rd. Flowers and a homemade wreath, made by my
sister, are always in tow on the thirty minute drive to Restland. I quietly sit in the car. Jeremy gives me this time to quarrel with the
quiet musings of my brain and heart.
Essentially, I am laying the final bricks of my wall to ensure that I
can hold my angst safely inside.
This year my mammoth feelings overfloweth—maybe it was
the extra-hard year we had, the doom of the decade mark, the meaningful accomplishments
missed by Mom?
We were the first to arrive at the site. Miss Bennet enthusiastically awoke and wanted
to see the beautiful grounds. Fearing what
would happen if I just stood still, I gave myself a menial task. I carefully lifted the bronze, inverted vase. Benny quickly pushed me aside to look down
the hole that held the vase since last winter.
“Ya-Ya!! Is she down there,
Mama?! Mama?! I don’t see her!” Her words were both endearing and
cutting. A few of us laughed and that
helped break up the thick, cold air. Thankfully,
she was appeased with my vague response entailing spirits going upward and
bodies staying in the ground. Her need
to be mentally occupied was already fulfilled by how to arrange the flowers in
the vase and the best way to stand the wreath she helped craft with Auntie
Kim. As we quietly stood by Mom’s
gravesite, Bennet continued to be her lively, loving self. She ran around, made silly jokes about bouncy body parts and laughed her sprightly laugh—oh, I was so thankful for
it. She kept my heart from sinking down
a steep hole of self-indulgence pity and grief.
I reminded myself that even after ten years, we were all
there together. Since that day a
decade ago, we have now added two little people (one who looks like Mom and the
other who acts like her), a baby making his/her presence known with little
kicks and jabs felt in my tummy and our dear, lovely Lisa—they all add so much
to our already-quirky, loving family. With
time, the circle will grow. And, with
time, more healing will be done.
I must admit that this year, compared to the nine others, restored the most to my soul. I have tried my best to harness my big feelings into gratitude and reflection these last few weeks. So, I wrote 10 letters to 10 individuals who have been instrumental in my continual healing.
And, for every single person who has given love and care the last decade, I have 10,000 years worth of gratefulness for you. Mom's hand kept me safe in the picture above. I now have many more hands holding me up, cheering me on and loving me so.
