Dear Mom,
I haven't stopped wishing you were here. And I know that's selfish, but looking back through our last messages has me feeling like I lost you all over again. Except the grief isn't the same. It's still raw, but without the denial.
I should probably take comfort in knowing I can talk to God about all of the things I still want to tell you... I feel like I'm in a conference call with Him when I write to you... He knows it all... down to how many tears I've cried missing you and the ones that were over other things. I'm just a person... one who cries a lot, apparently. You didn't though. Cry a lot, I mean... at least not that I ever saw.
I couldn't sleep... there's too much on my mind... and I know you'd tell me first to cast my cares... and I do, mostly... but sometimes a stray one slips through... and sometimes my fickle heart reels a few back. I'm a person.
I hadn't looked at our conversations here in a while... or maybe not as far back as I did today... and I just felt so ashamed. I was so wrapped up in something I was going through back then that seemed so hopeless at the time that I didn't even notice the change in your replies.
Your usual lengthy, thorough responses dwindling down to sentence fragments and stray emojis as the days went on... and I just kept going on about my problems... oblivious to yours... and that huge situation in my life... the one I was messaging about so much during your last weeks... it doesn't even matter anymore. It's irrelevant... I didn't know I was wasting our time together because I didn't think we were going to lose you. I trusted that we had more of it together.
...and then I get to thinking that if I'd have just listened and casted my cares from the start, I wouldn't have been too blinded by the overwhelm of my own life to ask you more about yours. And we'd have fonder conversations to remember... but that's selfish, too... because you don't need to remember them... I do.
I know I can't change it. The outcome. And I know that I should learn from it... but here I am again... wishing I could talk to you about my life. Not that I'd have called you at 1 in the morning anyway... but somehow just knowing I had the option to was reassurance enough.
So I'll close my eyes, work harder on casting my cares (1 Peter 5:7) without reeling them back in, and wake up with more answers than I had when I fell asleep.
I'm sorry for the times I took you for granted... I don't anymore... because I can't.
I miss you something terrible, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
I had a dream about you last night. My first one since that nightmare last month... this was actually a dream, though... or part of one, at least. So much of it was abstract... hidden armoires underneath the floor boards of a random building, an elevator of sorts that was more like its own structure... so many fleeting forgotten mirages of the imagination... and then there was you.
The scene shifted. We were at Grammy's house. Jenn was sitting on Grammy's old recliner--the one Grammy would fall asleep in while watching her soaps... the one with the sort of tight knit upholstery texture with mixtures of dark sienna and aged mustard micro-patterns woven into it... or at least that's how my memory has it stored. The recliner didn't quite match the carpet, but it didn't clash either. It was a constant. And Jenn was sitting in it. I don't know the relevance, but that's how it was.
You were there, too... sitting in a chair right where the lamp table used to be... the one that housed her 'newfangled' phone with all of its preset speed dial buttons and the safety alert station. I remember how fancy I thought it was... it had probably over 30 numbers programmed into it and at the press of a little grey rubbery button, your call was on its way through. Of course, if you forgot to press the 'shift' button, you'd accidentally call the wrong person... Grammy did that a lot.
I don't remember the context of the scenario... I think Jenn and I were working on some sort of project... but the project didn't matter.
You didn't speak at all the entire time, but you were present. You observed. It was significant somehow.
For a while, everything seemed normal... but then I looked over and you had found a confetti popper--like the ones for the 4th of July--except instead of paper streamers, ornate cut-out snowflakes gleamed down over our heads. It was beautiful. You stared up as they shimmered, marveling at their intricacy.
Even in my dream, I felt the tugging ache of missing you, but I didn't know yet that I already had been. I had this sinking feeling like I was going to lose you soon... so I got up from where I sat and leaned in to wrap my arms around you for a hug... I remember thinking, "I need to hug her all I can now because she won't be here to comfort me like this forever."
I backed up just far enough to see you-- tears welling in your eyes, streaming down your face... like you already knew there wasn't much time...
I wasn't ready for it to end though... I wanted to rest my head on your shoulder and listen to the reassurance of your breaths... to hug you until I felt the safe comfort of simply being near, knowing that everything would be okay because you were still there.
But it was 6 o'clock and the blaring sound of my alarm wrenched me away. I pressed "snooze". I thought that maybe if I closed my eyes again, I could siphon just a few more minutes of time with you--even if just in a dream. It didn't work.I miss you, Mom. Thank you for the hug.
Love always,
"Pookie"
Dear Mom,
She can hear me now. I can feel her moving around throughout the day like a reassuring hug as if to say, "I'm here, too."
Life.
Hers.
Not even born yet, but still very much alive.
We both stayed by your bedside for those final hours on this side of eternity.
Room 1414.
I wonder if she heard the resonance of the songs we sang to you.
I wonder if you heard me whisper her name in your ear. "Norah Jane".
Norah ... "full of light and wisdom". Brightness in the middle of darkness. And she is.
Jane means "God is merciful and gracious". And He is... even when the reasoning surpasses my own understanding. But to me, "Jane" also represents the strongest most selfless woman I've ever known. You.
I can't help but to feel the gravity.
She isn't born yet but was still by your side when you were called away. I wonder if she felt my heart sink as I watched yours beat its last. Did she hear the echoes of mourning as the doctor came into the room to announce your time of death? Could she sense the angels rejoicing at your Heavenly birth?
Light in the presence of darkness.
I know that you loved her already, but your absence from the rest of this journey still aches.
We miss you, Mom.
Love always,
"Pookie"
One of my Mom’s favorite songs to sing on a sunny day. George was always her favorite Beatle.
Kaleidoscopic Grace 