Going There

Every now and then it happens.  I don’t plan it, really.  Without warning, it just, well, it happens.  You know, kind of like when you’re driving and your mind wanders to other places and other things and suddenly your pulling into your destination and you find yourself confused?  It’s almost as if you were transported from point A to point B with a wave of a wand because you have zero recollection of the time and space between. 

That’s kind of how this goes–I’m not sure how I get there, but once I’m there I settle in for a bit and let the thoughts come.  I go there. . .

What if she were here.  What if she could see?  What if we could talk?  What if things had been different?  What if Mom were still here?

This week, a dear friend reached the 1 year mark of living in a world where her mother isn’t.  In the days leading up to that one year mark (using the word anniversary just doesn’t seem right) we communicated about what it meant–about how it felt.  Maybe that’s how I got here or maybe it was a multitude of other things that happened throughout the last week that always leave this lingering thought in the back of my mind . .

I wish she were here. . .

You see, I don’t let my mind go there very often.  I don’t allow myself to marinate on what I know isn’t possible.  But there are times when I can’t help but wonder what it might feel like to have her in this world again. To have her in my life.

I know that there are some things that only Mom cares about.  You know what I mean?  You know the way that you can call your Mom for no reason at all and talk about nothing at all but make nothing seem like something even if something is really nothing?  (Did you get that?) That’s what Mom’s and daughters do.  Or, at least, that is what my Mom and I did.  We talked about nothing that was something that was everything.

Even now, from time to time, I quiet all the noise around me and inside me just to be sure I can still hear her voice.  I reach deep into the recesses of my memory and I recall the way she said hello or the way she always called me Rah-Rah.  I search for the inflections and the silliness that reached from the phone into my ear and I feel relieved when I can still remember. 

I wonder if I’ll always remember.

Just tonight I said to Chad, I wish she could see our life right now.  I wish she were here to see all that has happened over the last four years.  I wish she knew. . .

I would like her to know that the four year old, often timid, little boy she knew is turning into quite a young man who is FULL of personality and energy and a deeply sensitive spirit. . .

I wish I could tell her that the little two year old toddler that brought her so much joy is turning into a brave and beautiful soul who says little with her mouth, but much with her eyes. . .

And there just are not words to express how much I wish she could know Meadow. . .

I smile when I think about how different our life is now.  I can only image if she were here and called me up the conversation might look like this. . .

Mom:  Hi Rah-Rah, Whatcha doing? (I know she would say this, because that’s how most of our conversations began–we had to talk about nothing that was something that was everything.)
Me: Oh, we’re just getting ready to go to the creek and catch creatures and wade in muddy water and get really dirty.
Mom: No really, what are you doing?

I think that if she popped back into our life today, I’d have a lot of explaining to do.  I’d have to explain to her that losing her changed everything. 

I’d have to explain to her that the bitterness of her loss made me dive more deeply into the sweetness of life.  I’d want to tell her that everything seemed more important, time seemed more precious, and life more beautiful.  I’d want to tell her all about that. . .

And that’s exactly what it comes down to–I wish she were here so I could tell her all about it.  I wish she could see. . .

Losing her strengthened my belief that God takes ashes and turns them into beauty.  No one will ever convince me otherwise.  The experience of loss gave me a profound appreciation for the word “bittersweet”.  Losing my Mom birthed in me something different, something new, and I will forever be thankful for that.  I’ll call that the “sweet”.

More than anything, though, I wish she were here to experience it. . .

. . . and that’s the “bitter” part.

So goes the story of life.

And sometimes I just have to say it.  Out loud.

********************************************

They left me
with your shadow,
saying things like
Life is not fair

& I believed them
for a long time.

But today,
I remembered
the way you laughed
& the heat
of your hand
in mine

& I knew that
life is more fair
than we can
ever imagine
if
we are there to live it
-Story People