I walked by
your picture the other day and your smile staring back at me seemed like a
distant memory. You’ve become someone I
used to know, like the elderly Korean neighbor you used to always greet, whose
grandson is now in middle school. I
hardly remember her. You’re an image
from my past, like your neighbor slowly walking past your house on her cane
who always stopped with a friendly greeting but in the impatience of my youth I
simply wanted to move on. Except I can’t
seem to move past this grief. Like
countless amputees, you’re just the ghost of a limb I once had. I can feel you there if I reach far back in
my memories. I was surprised by your
image as I walked past it. The fleeting
thought entered my mind that you were my mother. There are pictures of you everywhere. The one that still cripples me is the one
with you and your grandson. You both
have the same exact smile and the way you are holding onto each other it’s as
if you knew this moment would have to last.
I drove
over six hours with the husband and son you left behind to a place where I had
always dreamt of going. I’m sitting here
in the dark, on bench and writing beneath the light of the moon and street
lights. The sound of cars and trickling
water from a small fountain with a pineapple on it, serenade me. Your grandson were so excited to go on
vacation. I needed to desperately sleep
on a real bed. If you hadn’t died, I
would have bought my bed months ago. The
mattress has a huge dent from my ever changing weight through two pregnancies. It really needs to be replaced. Except for some strange reason I keep
remember that it was an anniversary present from you.
I dreamt of
this weekend but then I dreaded it too.
I don’t remember when we last went on a family vacation together. I think it was my cousin’s wedding. You would have been proud of him. But then you don’t use that word. You preferred humility. Maybe because English is our second language
that our take on the words vary. Or
maybe we were never meant to be of one accord.
Yet there are times I catch a glimpse of myself, a limb, a silhouette, a
gesture, something that’ll catch my breath.
Out of the corner of my eyes, I think I see you but I know you’re not
there.
This is
your timeshare. You should be here. You should have seen your grandson, how proud
he was that he overcame his fear and actually swam. They can’t wait to go back in tomorrow. I’ll probably join them. You would love the cruise we’re taking
tomorrow. You liked that sort of
thing. We passed a Walgreens on the way
here. My dad remembered how it’s your
favourite store and talked about you always finding one near every hotel where
you happened to be vacationing. But like
your pictures, these reminiscences are pointless. I have a life to live and since you’ve been
gone, your absence seems to take me farther away from who I was. Or maybe it is in your absence that I am
finally coming into my own, removed from that large shadow you cast over my
life.
Truth be
told, I miss your shadow. I grew into
the woman I am beneath your shade. Now
the sun scorches me. Yet, I am still
standing because while I stood beneath you, my roots had grown deeper than I
realized. There is a serenity here in
the dark, the sound of the night enfolding me in its embrace. It is an unusual place to write. But then I was never usual was I? I wish you could have simply told me the
truth and not hid behind the pretense of humility. In the end, the legacy we leave behind are
our words. I made sure to tell your
grandson how proud I was of him. It was
a big deal for him to go for a swim. He
overcame his fear. He is an over comer.
I think in
death you finally became the mother I needed.
I can cherish your memory and who you inspire me to be without dealing
with the myriad facets of your personality.
I don’t think there is anyone who doesn’t feel your absence
tonight. But I think we are
healing. We are beginning to see a
picture of what your family looks like without you. It is hard.
Maybe it will never become easy.
But we are trying. At the end of
the day, it is what any of us can do.
So after
all the dreading and the stressing, I have come to a simple conclusion. God never gives you more than you can
handle. So you have to trust him and
yourself, because if he’s allowing you to go through the valley, not only will
he see you thru but he has already equipped you to deal with what the valley
holds. Waiting and asking God what his
will is for your life is fruitless. If
you really want to know what God’s will is for your life, you have to stop and
listen to the answer. But most
importantly, you must find the courage to not only boldly accept the answer but
act on it. Sometimes, you really have to
remember to look past the trees and notice the forest in all its majestic
vastness. Only then can you truly
appreciate the raw beauty that surrounds you.
I hate it
that you are gone. But like any amputee,
I am learning to live without you. I am
living better without you than I did with you.
Perhaps that is the real lesson of motherhood, letting go, of your
mother and your child. Life is but a
fleeting moment. We are born and we will
die. The only thing that really matters
is the size of our footprint while we were here. It’s not about fame or fortune because they
come and go with the wind, it is about the impact we have in the lives of those
who allow into the sanctuary of our family.
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