Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it’s only because in my dream I’m a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands… – Pablo Neruda
Journal entry November 8, 2016:
8 years ago today, my little brother held my mother’s face and spoke sweetly, guiding my mother. I laid my right ear on her chest and I heard her heart slow then stop. A last sigh. Then she flew. She became everything.
Oh how I love you, Mamma. I see you more and more in my face, in my body. I welcome each sag, each wrinkle, each change in my bones. Your fingers are my fingers (on my right hand), your laugh is mine (and the parrot’s), your worn out recipe book has butter and flour stains and smells like your kitchen. When I hold Henrik and Vivienne, I feel you holding them as well. You whirl around the family and your spirit and love fills the room.
I still reach for the phone to call you. I want to talk about cleaners and the latest soup recipe with you. I want to have you lie on your bed with Asterix as I sort your closet and we laugh at sweaters we have held on to. I want to hop in the car with you and Tobey or Tina or Milton and walk for hours in the forest hunting for mushrooms.
I want to pull out all my Molly research and discuss it with you, head to Molly’s grave and have a picnic. I want to cook with you as the kids lounge in your bedroom watching cartoons. I want to pull out the furniture and dust behind the couch and weed the garden as we gossip and laugh. I want to spend full days in Fort Langley.
I no longer pursue your dreams on your behalf; I pursue mine as you truly always wanted me to do.
You feared to lose me, but you never did.
And as I become more and more myself, I become more and more your love.
Look at the legacy you created.
You are love. You are beauty. You are motherhood. You are the greatest mystery.
I need to process you. I want to write about you.
September 17, 1936 – November 8, 2008