Me and Doris, S. Africa, December 2003
My mother passed away a year ago today (originally posted at Sleepwalkers' Glory on 3/3/05), and even though she was far away, I knew it in my heart. When my dad called to say that she had been taken to the hospital, I was shaken with a cold, cold fear that blanketed everything. I left work, and Six drove me out to the beach where we sat in the car and watched the ripple of the waves. To me they seemed peaceful and shimmering and somehow it made it all the more certain though my dad hadn't made it seem final. It was only the fact that he even called that made me know something vital was about to happen. When my brother and I conference called later that evening, we were prepared to make the long journey back, but my dad said, "Kids, I don't know how to tell you this . . . but she's gone. Your mama is gone." And that's all it took. I didn't have a mama anymore.
All gone, like when you get to the bottom a jar of goodies, and you turn it upside down, shake it . . . and nothing comes out. You can lick your finger, swirl it around in the container, but when it's gone, it's gone. If it's something rare and valuable, there's no way to replace it, so there's no use trying. It's not like spilled milk that you can sop up and squeeze back into the jar. It's light as air. It is air, so you must breathe deep. It's like the springtime scent of jasmine, ephemeral, fleeting yet lingering. The only way to hold on to it is not to try, just breathe and remember what life was like with a mama. You can remember when you were five, and she tried to teach you jacks but you never really caught on, that type of hand-eye coordination being beyond you to this day.
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