I keep running across little
vignettes that make it seem like she is still here, maybe just about to come
around the corner and tell me something, or reach for something, or smile.
Although I might have passed by these little still-life scenes twenty times
already without much notice, it is that last, unexpected collision that takes
my breath away like a punch in the stomach. She touched them last and they have
remained so until now, as if she has just walked away and she’ll be right back
to take them up again. The momentary illusion freshens the sore reality. She’s
gone. She won’t be back. And, sadly, I wouldn’t wish it on her either, which
means I have to cope; I have to stop a second, acknowledge my loss, and remind
myself that this sadness is just one leg of my journey. It’s not forever.
In spite of these little
bouts of reality, or maybe because of them, coming back to the home I grew up
in has been a good experience. The first time back, of course, was just to bury
Mom and say my second goodbye to her. That visit was sad and I was glad when it
was over. The next couple trips were more healing. I came with the practical
pretense of doing something, of bringing her clothes for family to go through,
to check on the house, and to settle her estate; but I also, rather
unexpectedly, reconnected with both Mom and Dad. I discovered bits of their
history through old, forgotten photos, letters, and keepsakes and was able to
mourn their passing amid comforting memories. That feeling of being an orphan softened,
allowing me to move to that next step of celebrating those memories by linking
them with new ones with my husband and children when we met there for
Thanksgiving. Little by little, I find that things are coming full circle; from
loss to reconnection, from bereavement to celebration, from reliving old
memories to making them a foundation for creating new ones.
So I no longer enter this
portal of the past, the present, and the future expecting grief or the pressure
to either memorialize or make big changes. I come each time with some small goal in mind to
accomplish purely for my own pleasure; cleaning out a cupboard, hanging pictures, pulling weeds. I find I
cannot disturb every emotional vignette, nor do I need to. Sometimes, I can
only acknowledge one with a laugh or a tear and leave it for another time and
that is healing. Neither do I seek to immediately replace old with new as I sift through
the past, but rather to watch for tiny memory treasures that will sustain me
in barren moments and a way to re-purpose them in my life as I move
forward. A bean jar stays a bean jar, an apron becomes an art shirt, coffee
mugs become pencil holders, and vignettes take their places in photo albums. Then
I relax and renew. I connect with family and friends, indulge in things I love
to do but seldom have time for, and contemplate dreams for tomorrow.
