Moments in Time

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.