I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately. I imagine I always will come fall. Because brain cancer came with the fall, discovered by a fall. We lost her two years ago this month, though some days it seems like yesterday.
I hover over her
squint at tilted back and crooked neck.
Are you comfortable? I ask.
She looks up at me.
Are you?
No.
I tug and pull and fluff her pillows.
How is that–
are you comfortable now?
She looks up at me.
Are you?
Yes, I’m better.
And we laugh.
She hates this,
this lying back and letting go,
this being done for.
It’s a gift you can give, I say,
to let others do for all you’ve done
and she nods and thinks on that.
We’ve had some good heart to hearts, haven’t we?
And I nod and think on that.
Later we take her out in the recliner
and I lie flat on my back
on the concrete
with my camera
and she shakes her head at me.
I wonder at the blur of life
and how small I am
and consider eyes that see
and things unseen
unless I’m flat
looking up
letting go
being done for.
And light fluffs
this tilted
crooked hard.
And I’m more comfortable.
For now.
Still remembering,
Sandy
Linking with Laura today.
Ahh, the skill of letting it all go–being “done for” is so hard for me, Sandra. But through your beautiful story and the love that’s so evident for your mother who’s gone too soon, I’m grasping it better. Thanks so much for your authentic grief and joy.
The letting go is hard for me, too, Beth. One thing that helps me is to remember that in doing that, I gift another to feel useful, to put their gift into practice.
When I revisited this piece, I caught the double meaning in the term, “done for.” One day we’ll all be “done for” in this life and will need to let go to enter the new.
This touched me so deeply, Sandra. Thank you for sharing your memories of your beautiful mom.
Blessings!
Thank you for being such an encourager, my friend.
On Friday I was talking to a friend about the death of a parent. We have both lost our dads. He asked me how long do you mourn? I said “until heaven”. It gets easier but there are still moments of mourning, remembering, tears, and sorrow.
My Father has been gone for over 40 years and it took me almost that time to realize that it’s okay to stop and remember, to mourn once again and then move on.
Giving you a hug today as you breathe in the memories of your mother….
Ah, Sharon. I still mourn my mother-in-law who’s been gone for almost 30 years now. We were quite close, so I expect I’ll mourn my mom until heaven. I grieve her passing, and I grieve the passing of opportunities to have brought her more joy. We need to milk the every moment.
Hugging you right back…
Sandra – All I can say is “hugs.” So beautiful to have others who are willing to do for us in our time of need. What a beautiful exchange between mother and daughter. Your memories of her are so sweet. Brought tears in my eyes recalling my own time down on my back in the fluff of sheets and the love of my family tenderly caring for me. What a sweet, sweet blessing for both giver and receiver. Thank you again for sharing such a palpable moment with us.
Hugs,
Kelly
Oh, to remember that to let someone care for us blesses them. It’s so hard for me to get past the “I don’t want to be a burden or put you out” feelings. When I missed a couple steps and broke my foot some years back, the first words I remember saying were, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Because I knew I was not going to be able to “do” for my family as I had been. Yet I continued to try–threw clothes in the washing machine with a crutch, scooted up and down stairs on my behind to clean. Maybe even letting someone do for us–even if they do it grudgingly–is blessing them, allowing them to grow.
Just stopping by from Laura’s today. We don’t know each other, but I’m so sorry for your loss. Two years is not that long for grief for a mother to soften. My grandfather passed away fourteen years ago yesterday, but that’s such a small taste of the loss of a beloved parent. Thank you for sharing this glimpse into your friendship and last earthly days with your mom. May the Lord continue to comfort with His presence and promises.
Hello, friend. I recognize your “handle,” and I’m sure we’ve crossed paths somewhere. 🙂
You’ve blessed me big by your presence and words here today.
Sandy, this just takes the heart of me. Has it really been two years? It doesn’t seem like it to me either. Bless you, sweet friend, as you remember. I love you.
Yes. It’ll be two years on November 27. I love you, too. See you in ONE week!
I can’t remember driving my Daddy anywhere until today when we went for blood work. I was not comfortable. “Eleven year olds” shouldn’t drive there Daddy’s ever. I trying to be forty-nine but it’s hard…
Thank you visiting me, encouraging me, and sharing your story–
Maybe, tomorrow I will write, maybe not..
oops! “their daddies” I am really, really tired 🙂
There are no word police around these parts. 🙂
You are on my heart, dear friend. It’s hard doing for them when you are still the eleven-year-old at heart.
Sandy – I have yet to walk this path. It helps me to read your words and your heart. I understand this – sometimes feel it myself. You have such a beautiful way of putting me right into the heart of your writing.
I miss you.