My mother died in December. She was 94. Last Saturday, a week ago today, was her 95th birthday. She was ready to go. I miss her.
My brother died in 2009. He was 60. He was not ready to go. While we didn’t see each other often, I miss him too.
My dad died in 1997. We were the apple of each other’s eye. I still miss him.
There were four of us when I was growing up. Now it’s just me. I’m getting used to it. There’s no more buffer. Ready or not, batter up.
The first two months after mom’s death were a blur. Sort through her things. Empty the house. Stop the accounts. Find an estate lawyer. Cry. Send letters. Read cards. Transfer the mail. Lie on the couch. Cry.
The tsunami came ashore sometime in March. Remember to take the cell phone in case she calls. Remember she won’t call. Weep. Find a home for the cat. Find a different estate lawyer. Weep. Email the realtor. Weep. Replay the last days of her life. Weep. Sort through the family photos. Weep. Especially at the sight of my brother, a gentle and quiet kid always in my shadow.
It’s strange, this process of grieving and letting go and closing out a life. I notice few thoughts in my head. I cook and eat, sort through mail and respond to the world. I don’t initiate much. From December to April, the only thing I crave is time with my son and his friends. It reconnects me with the vibrancy of life.
Business always goes down in December and springs back in January. This year it didn’t spring back. I sense that it’s the universe making room for this process. Every once in a while I scare myself by thinking the economy has caught up with me and my business is going down the tube. Then I see what I’m doing and smile.
Little things take on significance. In January, a feral cat appeared at the back door. Ugliest cat I’ve ever seen. He had ice caked in his paws, a dull tortoise coat, skittish demeanor. I gave him a bowl of food. He became a regular. I added eggs and cottage cheese. It worked. He’s still ugly, but his coat looks good.
We now look for each other. I named him Maury. Some days he comes right up to the door, gazing into the kitchen with his “I’m hungry” look. Some days I have to call. He won’t let me close. That’s okay. I put the food outside, lie on the floor on my side of the glass door, and watch.
I’m coming back. Every day I find something else to be awed by: the smell of the earth after a hard rain … three new blossoms on a plant I rescued from death’s doorstep at the local grocery … new business … two days at Notre Dame sharing laughs and stories with colleagues. And every day I find something of my mom or my brother or my dad in my life.
All is as it should be. I’m just part of the fabric. So are they … along with all who went before … and all who follow. We’re in this together, for the instant and for the eternity it rides upon.