My mom died.
Seeing it inked out in block letters doesn’t make it more real. I thought it might.
I know there are stages to grief, and mine has currently taken the form of bewilderment. I’m 58 years old, Mom was 6 weeks shy of 96 when she died. We were together a long time, so it probably isn’t surprising that I keep getting this jolt of confusion when I remember she isn’t here. Mom? Mom? Where are you? How can I not feel bewildered when I realize she isn’t where she has been for my whole life? She passed away rather quickly. Maybe that’s why I’m so dazed by her absence.
I like to think, and am pretty sure most would agree, that she had a full and satisfying life. She was loved, respected, sharp as a tack, witty as hell and an overall gem of a soul. I believe it would have appalled her to linger on in a hospice and dying by degrees. She was intelligent, somewhat shy, super liberal and hated being a nuisance.
She taught us the importance of music and instilled creativity in us all. She was a giver. My siblings and I continually get notes from her friends ages 20-80 that we didn’t even know that she had, recounting what a positive impact she had on them. She donated. She volunteered. She cooked from the heart. She wrote. She was dignified and ladylike.
Mom gave us the gift of each other, too. She was steadfast as the matriarch and the fabric of our family. In hindsight I maybe wasn’t so aware of it, but she was the connecting point to my wonderful siblings, nephews, in-laws and cousins.
I could ramble for pages and no doubt will as time passes. I inspired my mom to write a blog, so I feel a sense of responsibility to keep this one going. I just wish she could read it.