Hi there. The second wave has hit. There's a depression, a grasping, a longing, a sadness. I have new fears; of crossing the street, of loosing a pencil, of saying goodbye. I have a new ability to panic that sits waiting below the surface of my functional exterior. The hands I hold will never be the size of hers, or as smooth. There will be no more phone calls every morning celebrating the glories of my life. I will not be told what is being made for dinner. I will not be told the events of the day. I will not hear her excited voice, or her check-in voice or her calls in times of anguish. Cecilia will not receive her silly packages.
I have a sadness that only I can hold. Others can lift me, others can reach out, they can hold me, but the well of sadness is mine. Edward has a different sadness, Nick has a different sadness. Only I can hold me. I feel the support, I hear the words and they all help, they are all comfort, but it is me who must bear the weight. Me who must feel the turmoil. It is I who will be ambushed by her handwriting, by an image, a smell, a story I cannot share. It is I who will lay awake unable to cry. It is me. This is me. This is my story, my path, my journey.
I feel ideas germinating, I feel art to create, food to digest, stories to tell. I feel knowledge and wisdom coming. I feel joy that will be boundless and inherent pride. A whole life to live for her. Another generation to infuse with her spirit, the gifts of creativity and education. I see textiles and artifacts in my future, a studio too small to house all of my ideas and plans, the creation is coming.
Every death brings a rebirth. Here we are all born again. The slate is wiped and it's time to start over. A life where I am the mother and Ce is the child. A life where I draw the lines and she breaks away. I pray for flexibility, for growth, for change in my body, in my life. I pray for peace in our family. Enough is enough, air your dirty laundry and move on!
Here's some of my laundry: Once in high school I hit someone's car and didn't tell anyone. I knew the person, but I was so scared of the reaction that I drove away. I have regret and shame to this day over this childish action, but here I am telling the free world of this action and moving on.
Step forward into the light of forgiveness with me.
I admire your bravery, Anne.
ReplyDeleteAnother amazing post...
I love you!
Beautiful post Anne. When you wrote "I have new fears; of crossing the street, of loosing a pencil, of saying goodbye," I thought how the protection of even a very flawed mother is gone, so of course you have new fears. And yeah, it's yours. You are so right that no one can live or feel our grief for us. It is ours alone. And yet the paradox is that in your writing it so clearly I feel met, shared with, seen, in my own losses. Thank you for sharing such vulnerability, sweet woman.
ReplyDeleteAnne:
ReplyDeleteYou are absolutely right: this is your journey. We can only watch from the side and offer our hands when you need them. Your beautiful posts help us understand a modicum of what you're feeling. Words wrapped in grief, love, wisdom, fear. What a wondrous legacy your mother leaves in you. Thank you for sharing these tender words.