Today, I sit in the light of the rising sun, rocking myself in the old blue chair–the one I loaned my mom before she died. It’s an unusually small recliner. For a few months, with planning and effort, she could get out of it by herself. But then she couldn’t. She fell and laid helpless on the institutionally-bland carpet for who knows how long? They found her tangled in the floor lamp, alive but not coherent, her body bruised from her efforts to get up. That was Mom. Never stop trying to get back up.
Dylan Thomas would have approved. Mom did not “go gentle” into any dark nights. In her stubborn way, she raged against the dying of the light. When faced with a challenge, she’d clamp her thin lips tight, stomp on the gas and shoot down the road, her ever-shrinking body taut with determination. She’d arrive in her shiny white Ford, peering at the road from just above the steering wheel. She never stayed long.
God has stopped by to reminisce. He’s wearing decades on his shoulders, and our whole upstairs has become quite crowded. “Oh God,” I say, shifting to make room, glad for the company. “Remember how she believed that when she got to heaven, she’d have to give Dad an account of how she managed the ranch after he died?” God nods, a little teary. He really admired my mom over the years. “And remember how much she gave away?” I added. God smiles with pride.
There’s not much else to say. Those last three days, death pulled her tenderly down through the layers of life until it was just her brain stem fighting for air. The Wasabi sting of emotion threatens my placid mood as I sit with the memory of her insistent breath, sucked in and out, in and out, irregular and awful. Not a memory anyone needs to have.
After she fell out of this chair, she never sat in it again. I brought it home—slightly more worn. I’ll keep it a while.
“Tell her, will you?” I ask God.
“Tell her yourself,” God answers, and holds up a mirror Mom carried in her purse. She used it to reapply her lipstick and smooth her hair. God slips open the purple plastic cover, and I see the unadorned eyes and lips of eternity–of now and forever. I see the eyes of God, wide like a baby, and the lips of God, as full as Bob Marley’s, singing.
I fight to let God’s swaying body save me–to believe in mercy and compassion in this broken, greedy, hungry world. To use my breath for good, and welcome my demise with grace. I rock in the old blue chair, sun warming my bones, while God, as audacious and angular as ever, dips and weaves as he hammers out the beat on the steelpan drums.
Oh Rita – how lovely. You and I are looking down the same road with different eyes. Treasure your present as it is your past.
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Thanks Gloria. Yes. Different eyes, same journey. And yes, the present is infused with the past–and predicts the future. Finding peace with that…
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Nice. Before long, my mom will be gone. Turn, turn.
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Thanks Rob. Yes, indeed. Turn, turn, turn. We had that song sung at her memorial!
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Loved Mary Lou !🙏🏻🙏🏻
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Thanks Sarah! Me too…
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Beautifully written. I’m so sorry that you’re missing your mom. Sounds like she was a rare wonder.
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Thanks Alison. She was a wonder and a real force in our lives. It was terrible to see her suffer, but she remained tough to the end.
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Blessings on the memories … and the tears and the laughter and the emptiness and fullness of all that is in this moment.
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Yes to all of the above!! Thanks.
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BEAUTIFUL tribute to your mom’s strength of character, determination, and Montana grit—I aspire to show such grace each day.
Love you loads—sending hugs without end. S xoxoxo
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Susie, you show that grace and those guts every breath you take!! Love you too.
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Oh Rita, this is such a spirit filled, soulful remembrance of your Mum.
I’m sorry for your loss and sending warm love,
D
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Thanks D. Marley always makes me miss you. Hope all is well over there :).
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Peace and love to you, dearie.
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Thanks Jean!! Yes. Peace. and Love. Back to youl
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Wonderful…thanks. Shedding a few tears. A good woman, and I never forget that I too had such a mom, and thank her daily.
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Yes, our forebears were amazing people and we’re lucky to have them as role-models. Thanks and hugs.
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