December 3, 2005

her gloves

I don't know where to start. There is really never a way to explain what it is to lose a parent unless you lose one yourself. You change. As a person to whom this is happening now, I can tell you that I never imagined half of it.

There's a tangible feeling of separation; it seems that a piece of you is being wrenched out and away. A scrap of paper she wrote on becomes a treasure. My sister and I each took one of her gloves - the black leather driving gloves she's worn forever. Slipping a hand inside is like holding hers. We'd never have guessed how much those gloves mean to us now.

Also, there's her car. Her clothes, her piles of quilting and sewing supplies, her dishes, her computer. In the bathroom, there's her lipstick, her perfume, her hairspray, her prescriptions. Tonight, we had a bottle of her tomato sauce -- there is a case of it in the basement. There are pictures, there is every card we ever sent to her. Forget about the kitchen -- every single thing in there is her.

So all of these things that are hers are existing without her, as if someone sent the cast home and we're looking at an empty set.

I keep hoping that she wrote us each letters, left us just another word or thought from her, telling us what we should do now. Before, I could picture the difficulty people face when they've lost someone but not in the way that I thought, not that you just miss a person being there. You don't feel the same about aspects of life, like holidays. I have no desire for Christmas. I can last about three seconds if I hear a holiday tune before feeling sick. My life is forever changed.

I thought I'd be relieved when the wake was over, but I'm not. Around grieving people, I knew what to do. We'd cry and talk and comfort each other. I could still see my mom in some form. Same with the funeral. Now that the people have gone, though, there is more time to be alone. I can't stop going over every detail in my mind of her illness and sudden death. I can't get over feeling robbed, feeling helpless, with pain and anger and no enemy towards which to direct it. I move through the day as if watching someone else. I can barely listen to the radio or stand the television. I don't want to be distracted. I'm standing on a small piece of earth that isn't moving while the rest of the world is speeding by in a blurry string of lights.

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I would like to say thank you to everyone for the really beautiful and supportive comments. They have made me smile. But I don't have words that are big enough to express my gratitude to you for sharing my pain with me and my family.

I only want to tell you one more thing. Hug or call your mother, now, if you can.

Posted by Mia at 6:03 AM to other stuff | Print this!
Tags:mom

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