“She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.”

16 Feb

I miss my mother today.

It’s subtle. Days, weeks, months-time will fly by with nary a thought or a word of her. Then a day will come where I’ll be enveloped in that long lost grief, held down and forced to bear it. And I’ll be that 11 year old girl again-weak at the knees, confused, upset and hollow.

Rosalyn spent the day climbing over me, up me, around me, her thin arms stretching behind my neck as if she was trying to become one with me once more. She spent the day reminding me what I’m missing, what I had once. Arms that no longer hold me. Lips that will never again say my name.

I crave for my loved ones to call my name, so that I’ll remember the word on their lips if ever they pass. To hear the syllables float softly into the air before me to linger, so I can hold them close.

I miss the smaller intimacies that motherhood brings. Someone who brushes your hair without hurting. Someone who knows how brown you like your toast. The socks you like. The exact color of your eyes and why you hate mousse. My daughters remind me of this some days, days like today when the sun, finally the sun! poured in like maple through the windows and glowed on their honey wheat heads, luminescent.

I remember weekend days like this with my mother, the slow pouring of hours, like honey. We’d watch old movies, cuddled on the couch. I’d have a sandwich for lunch, we walk downtown, stopping to talk, the waltz of a small town main drag. We’d sit at the bar, tucked in a corner of our house, and she’d play music on glasses filled with water as I’d sit, entranced. The sun would blaze through the windows, and it was like life would never end.

Things end however. Too soon, they end.

Today I could feel her hands in mine, dangling around me. And I missed her. I ached for her, for this mother I barely know, this mother mine who I’ll never see again, a woman whose memory forms much of what I believe women should be, much of what I think I should be.

Her spirit, her will was in those arms of Rosalyn today. And it took all I had to not weep quietly in a corner at their magic.

6 Responses to ““She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.””

  1. Mad Hatter February 16, 2008 at 11:46 pm #

    This was beautiful, Thor. Days like this slap us from out of nowhere, don’t they?

  2. sweetsalty kate February 16, 2008 at 11:58 pm #

    “someone who knows how brown you like your toast…”

    That got me. Such a beautiful post. I’m glad you’re open to seeing that sort of magic. So do I, but not all the time – and I’m starting to get the feeling that it takes practice.

  3. Judy February 17, 2008 at 12:30 am #

    That was beautiful. You made me cry.

    A few nights ago I thought I could feel my dad. I thought how much he would love his little grandsons, and longed to see his smile.

  4. allyo February 17, 2008 at 9:06 am #


  5. Bon February 17, 2008 at 12:43 pm #

    there is something about being known, being cared for to the depths of your mundanity, the smaller intimacies you talk about here.

    i feel touches of my lost childhood sometimes in caring for O. and it’s funny how feeling those touches, those hands around me, makes me wistful and lonely in that achingly poignant way.

    beautiful post.

  6. marcelarhodus February 18, 2008 at 3:40 am #

    you brought tears to my eyes…

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