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| Moonstone: Exists in pearly tones of white, grey, blue, and peach. Symbolizes the lunar cycle and feminine nature. Represents fluidity and helps with transitions through the phases of our lives. | |||||||||
| Last year at this time. Last year at this time. The litany runs through my head. Last year at this time, the earth was shifting beneath my feet, the shape of my life changing despite all my heart's resistance. Last year at this time, Mom was ill, but she was still with us. Last year at this time, my daughters and I gave her the thousand cranes we folded for her, our benediction of love and hope. Last year at this time, we knew her death was imminent, though the days seemed endless, at times, stretching out before us in all their altered shape. Last year at this time, her brother, sister, nieces, grand-nieces and grand-nephews came to visit her, and she was able to enjoy their visit, though it tired her. Last year at this time, she sat, during the day, on the couch, her blankets and pillows tucked around her. When we came to see her, the television was on, tuned to Andy Griffith, The Golden Girls, basketball. I remember her slow movements, her fingers tucking in the edges of the blanket. At the lunch table, she would meticulously lift each morsel of food with her chopsticks, stir-fried vegetables, rice, even miniature M&Ms. I remember how thin her face became, how dark her eyes. I remember how seldom she spoke. I remember how Dad sat on the hassock by the couch, talking softly with her, massaging her leg to ease the pain there. | |||||||||
| Her world became gradually smaller; first the long trips had ended, then the trips to the grocery store, and to church, or the zoo or to lunch with her grandkids, until it had shrunk to the top level of her house: the bedroom where she slept, the bathroom, the living room where she spent her days, the dining room where she ate, until, at last, her world was the bed in which she lay. Sometimes her mind wandered into some other place, and she looked for the baby she thought was under her blankets, or the cigarette she thought she'd lit, though she'd quit smoking ten years before. She was diminished from the woman who had been the center of our family, but still, last year, at this time, she was here, she was with us. | |||||||||
| We think the future unfurls before us like a bridal runner, but now I find that the past has reached forward to put its imprint on my days. I am haunted by images and feelings that are the echo of events and emotions that happened last spring. This year, I cannot see the trees budding around me, without remembering how the locust tree outside her front window, which I could see as I sat in the chair opposite her, changed from its winter bareness, to the soft green of its spring garb. When I saw a robin for the first time this spring, I could not help but remember that last year, I saw my first robin as I drove to her house for a visit. On that same visit, I was surprised by a pair of mallard ducks resting in her front yard. This year, the sight of the birds returning, of ducks and geese in pairs along the road, brings an ache to my heart that is becoming all too familiar. Last year, I told her about the robin. This year, I cannot. | |||||||||
| There are days of the year, now, that I know are marked. Last year, on Mother's Day, I stood before the racks of cheerful cards, and wondered how I could choose one that would say everything I felt, one card to sum up my appreciation for a lifetime of love and support. I didn't think Mom could really understand, at that point, anything I might try to say. She did understand that we came to see her. She tried to get up to make us dinner, but we convinced her to rest, and then we had strawberries and angel food cake together. We didn't want to tire her by staying too long, but she told us she was enjoying the visit. When I left, she said, I love you, Joan, and then she said it again, as if she wanted me to know she wasn't just saying the words, she really meant it. This year, on Mother's Day, no words will pass between us, and in the silence, I will feel her absence deeply. | |||||||||
| Last year, I celebrated my birthday alone, for the first time. I was born on my mom's twenty-seventh birthday. We didn't always see each other, or celebrate together, on our birthday, but there was always at least a phone call, and the feeling of connection. My kids and my husband, gave me gifts that lifted my heart, but we also went to the cemetery, because it was her day, too. It was a sunny, hot, August afternoon. I brought a yellow rose with petals tipped with pink, reminiscent of the Peace roses she used to grow in her backyard. I placed it with the flowers my dad had left in the holder on the red marble that covers the niche in which her ashes rest. I looked at the words inscribed there: Katheryn Maeda 1925-1999. I did not cry. But I knew that this would be a new birthday tradition for me, one I had never foreseen, in all our celebrations together. | |||||||||
| Before Mom's illness, I didn't understand what it meant, when someone said their mom or dad was dying. I didn't understand what sorrow might lie behind those words, what change is wrought when those few words become our truth. Jean, a friend of mine who recently found out her mother has inoperable lung cancer, wrote to me, "It feels like I've stepped into a secret room that was always there but I never knew existed before..." .I have had the thought of going back to everyone who has said to me 'my mother is dying,' or 'my friend died,' and saying I'm sorry because I just didn't understand...." Last year, I entered that secret room, to join the countless others who dwell there. Though I am a newcomer to this room, I reach my hands out to Jean, as she, too, steps in, with hope that what little I have learned so far might ease her way, just a little. | |||||||||
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