Sissy and I, we talk about it.
Again.
All she did was reach to put a dish back on the nightstand.
And BOOM! She hit the floor.
And the ambulance came.
And she never saw her house again.
We talk about the lasts.
The last time she walked in that door.
The last time she walked out.
The last email she wrote.
The last visit with that grandchild.
The last sleep in her own bed.
The last check she wrote.
Her last Christmas on earth.
She had no way of knowing.
There’s a sale at the Chocolat Haus, and the line winds three deep, and I inherit the “end of the line” sign and try not to shop while I hold that spot.
But she doesn’t find the chocolate-covered chips, and she texts me, and I pass the sign on, and we leave.
There’s a cookie walk at Isabella’s to benefit a local animal shelter.
So we go there, and I don’t need cookies, but I fill a box and pay twenty dollars.
And she does, too.
I buy this egg timer thingy that you drop in the water. It changes color to tell you when your egg is soft or medium or hard boiled.
And I buy an itty bitty cutting board.
And drool over new white dishtowels and butter keepers and teapots and floppy spatulas and colorful bowls.
We go back outside in the cold and head toward the car but get sidetracked into G Willikers.
I should not be here, but this is grief therapy.
Then we’re browsing antiques, and I pick up a glass pitcher and carry it a few feet, but put it back on the shelf
We find a booth at the Sugar Bowl. I used to come here for onion rings and Cokes a hundred years ago.
But this morning we ask about the Greek rice pudding, and the waitress brings us cinnamon-dusted samples, and it’s so, so good.
We order breakfast.
And talk some more about the last couple of months and the fatigue and of one who thought we should be better organized, and Sissy said she almost lost it then.
I tell her how I feel pulled in so many directions and how I’m not feeling very Christmasy and how it wouldn’t take too much for me to break into a million pieces.
I see the tears begin to pool in her eyes and feel them well up in mine, and I laugh. We don’t have time to cry yet.
The coffee cramps my stomach, and I can’t finish my sourdough toast.
We pay the bill and walk out the back way, down the long hallway where the walls are lined with framed menus of the past and pictures of long ago.
I think about how, lens captured, time stopped for an instant.
And I realize that my time could stop in a moment.
And it’s possible that I could never see my house again.
Or my husband.
Or my children.
And I think how important it is to capture the gift in every moment while the time is now.
Because I have no way of knowing.
Oh, how sweet the light of day, And how wonderful to live in the sunshine! Even if you live a long time, don’t take a single day for granted. Take delight in each light-filled hour, Remembering that there will also be many dark days And that most of what comes your way is smoke. ~Ecclesiastes 11:7-8 (Message)
And joining Laura and Laura and Ann and Jen and Emily, gifts I don’t take for granted.
That verse ! I have never read that verse…or at least that translation. How amazing the Word is. Thank you for sharing your heart.
None of us knows. “Our days on earth are like grass; like wildflowers, we bloom and die.” [Ps 103:14, NLT] It’s not for us to know our end time, or to fret over it, but to live out the days we have in celebration for how God has made us… giving usefulness to the vessels of clay that we are. I think your mother’s life had much meaning for all of you, and for her friends. I know you miss her, and are exhausted from what these past months have drained from you. But God will refill you. Just wait upon him, Sandy, and take strength from the love that surrounds you.
That last line from Ecclesiastes!
You’re doing fine, Sandy. This is what these days are supposed to be like: smoke with occasional sunshine.
Oh so beautifully painful. I am praying for you friend.
No way to know, Sandy. No way. I am glad you have Sissy—and Sissy has you.
Oh. DEEP sigh for you, groans, too. I so hope you will have time and space to let those tears flow sometime soon. But what you are doing is exactly right. Megan said it and she knows, she knows.
I find myself feeling slightly nauseous each night when it’s time to call and check in on my mom. She is so confused, so over-emotional, and I need to tell her things very slowly and over and over again. Tomorrow night, after Lilly-day, we leave to drive south til Sunday. And I will pack up my mom’s cupboards to move her across the street into assisted living. This is a hard transition for both of us, but we’re trying to make ‘the best’ of it. And I must say, after reading this tonight, I yearn for a sister to share this with. A good gift in the midst of a hard, hard time, Sandy.
Love and prayers, friend. KEEP WRITING about it – it will help you move through this journey. And it helps all of us, too. Believe me. It does.
No words. {xoxoxo}
And you are a gift to me. I don’t know how to do that thing–grieve well. It seems like you are. You and your sissy, just being together and letting life love you this way. My heart is broken for you, but I am sending love.
You know, I have what feels like a fear of grief. This, I think, will be helpful to me.
I’m so sorry for your loss- I lost my grandfather a few months back – http://www.adventurezinchildrearing.com/2011/09/legacy-of-strength.html I don’t think I have even really allowed myself to process the entire thing yet- busy busy. I worry about my mother right now- I’ll pray for you- Mom’s name is Laura if you can think to pray for her! I’d appreciate it!!! God bless- thank you for sharing your heart- it’s just so true- we are not entitled to tomorrow!
I am not sure what your situation of loss is, but I am glad you can share it with your sister. When we lost our precious mom, six years ago . . . I remember once saying . . . it is so fun to have my brothers and sisters to share the grief and the joy of who our mom was. And then I couldn’t believe I had used the word fun . . . but it was.
I am sorry for you loss and glad that you have someone to share it with.
Fondly,
Glenda
You are so right, Sandy. We have no way of knowing. When my late husband passed away, it was instant, from unknown causes. He was only 48. One moment he was sitting in his chair next to me, the next he was gone. We just don’t know. Thankfully, we lived our lives with love and there were not any unsaid words or regrets, other than our time together being so short.
When we lose someone, we gain a deeper perspective on what life really means, where our priorities need to be.
My heart and prayers go out to you and your family. The holidays are particularly hard after losing someone as precious as your mother. God will fill the gap. He will refresh you. Trust Him.