The semester is all but ended - some last minute changes to assignments need to be made, but I have until later this week to finish them. The mad rush in the part-time job is over as well - the deadline for completion was Dec 11, and the target was reached, at least on my part. It's 12:20am, and I'm curled up on the couch with my laptop, enjoying the remnants of my evening's fire, and occasionally gazing around at the peacefully sleeping hounds (2 of whom are sharing the couch with me).
A peaceful night, or early morning, and a time that lends itself to thinking quiet thoughts, and remembering good memories.
I've been thinking a lot lately, as I've driven around my city doing this project for my part-time job. I've done a lot of talking to myself, and a lesser amount of talking to God, and occasionally, I've talked to Mom. Some of these internal conversations have centered around today's date - Dec 12. What would it be like, I wondered. What would *I* be like on this date?
What does one do on a day like this? One part of me says "Stay home, and remember." But a friend has offered to buy me lunch (or dinner), to celebrate my birthday and my new job. So... meet the friend, or say "I'm sorry, but I'm planning to be depressed on Sunday." (I'm meeting the friend, but I left myself an opening to change my mind. She understands - good friends are like that).
I want to spend my day quietly... not rushing around, not working. Reflecting, and remembering. Honoring and affirming a life that's gone, but also affirming that life goes on. So I'm planning on meeting my friend. We'll eat, we'll drink cappucino, we'll reminisce and catch up on each other's lives, and we'll be restored by the fellowship.
And at some point during the day, either before or after meeting my friend, I will raise a chilled glass in silent toast - "To you, Mom - thanks for all you did. I'm glad I knew you, and humbled to be your daughter."
There might be some tears, at that point, some moisture in my eyes that can't be blinked away, and a lump in my throat that precludes talking, or even swallowing. And that will be ok.
Being alive means feeling things. I don't want to bury my emotions, drain them of power, suppress them into non-existence.
I want to experience them, and acknowledge them, and move through them to the wonder that lies beyond.
The wonder... that my mother, dead these 366 days, is still vibrantly alive in my thoughts, and in my heart. As long as someone remembers her, she will never truly die, and even though I can no longer reach out for the warmth of her hug, she hugs me every day, whenever I think of her and her constant and unyielding belief in me.
Comments