On Friday my Mom passed from her Earthly body. Her soul was released from this side of the veil to the other. A journey we will all someday take.
It was sudden and, for me, the shock of it all is still settling in and I am sad. She was alone and probably afraid, but I don’t believe she was in pain or suffering. As the act of dying goes, she got a pretty good deal.
Those of us left without her have the pieces that she left behind in our hearts and our memories.
She was artistic and could put paint on a canvas and create something beautiful where once there had been nothing. I have several pieces of her art hanging in my home.
She was creative and could sew dresses and scarves, afghans and baby clothes. She made the dress I wore to my senior prom. She didn’t sew my dress because we couldn’t afford a store bought one, she made it because I asked her to. I knew the one she made would be prettier than anything I found in the store.
She was a woman of few words. She never said more than necessary and conversation was not her favorite activity. Still, she made her points when she needed to.
She was teased endlessly for her use of the word “gutter broad”, which she managed to birth 3 of, and always took it with a good natured chuckle.
She once, out of anger, threw all of the dishes in our kitchen cabinet against the wall. A floor covered in glass was my first introduction to the power of hormones and the definition of the “The Change”
My husband calls the way my Mother loved “Quiet Love”, which I think is a good term for it. A love that came from giving and doing, not demanding a lot of attention and often coming at odd times or unexpectedly. I share this memory of my Mother with you as I think it demonstrates perfectly how she loved us.
As a child I had a favorite book: The Crows of Pearblossom by Aldous Huxley. I loved this book about a crow couple and their eggs, a nasty snake and a helpful owl. It was the book I ALWAYS wanted her to read to me. And she did, tirelessly. As children do, I grew, and bedtime stories and children’s books became novels paged through on my own. I forgot about the book. Filed the story far back into the untouched places of my memory.
A couple of years ago during a visit with Mom she came to me and said she had something for me. She handed me the book. The pages were yellow and falling out. My beloved childhood story had become a fragile antique. She told me she could never let the book go because I had loved it so much. She went through the trouble to move it from Illinois to Arizona to Texas because she knew how special it was to ME.
I love you Mom.