Rambling on My Mom

I wear her sweater, a light-weigh lacy off-white one that is great in air-conditioned restaurants. I feel her arms around me.
I wear her cologne from a small bottle of Vanilla Fields and feel her scent surround me.
I look through her pictures, write up her life, plan the music for the memorial service, contact family.
And I do strange things. I shop. I hear her say, “Take off my sweater.”
My daughter arrived from Virginia. We spend time together three times a year as we visit her in Virginia or she comes here on a yearly visit home. We always take a trip to shop at a favorite store. There is one in Virginia and one in Wisconsin. We wander and try on clothes and model them and give our opinions and yes, leave with pretty little bags.
“Stop, Carol. Don’t look at those price tags. That looks pretty on you. Just take it up to the counter and put it with the others.”
“Mom, what are you talking about? You never told me that before. You were frugal. I was, am frugal.”
“Frugal. Who cares. Buy those pretty clothes.”
Where are you mom. I feel your sweater, I smell you scent, I look in the mirror and see your eyes.
“You just buy those pretty clothes.”
My having a somewhat painful condition, although having gotten the pain under control, and having had my mother die, has rallied my family around me: cooking meals, and in general helping out. Then Peggy came, and, of course, since her siblings and nieces and nephews only get to see her once a year, they have all come by frequently. When Peggy comes home, she just fits right in like she lives here all the time.. Last night my son called, “We’re up in Baraboo. We’ll be there in ten minutes. We’re bringing dessert.” Chocolate cream pie. It was delicious.
Of course I know this will end after the service. Life will go on. Next week I’ll do the work of being my mother’s head survivor, taking all the materials to an attorney to help with insurance, etc., writing thank-you notes.
And she never, in all my life told me she loved me. Never.
“Well, for goodness sake, Carol. Of course I did.”
“What, Mom?”
“You know, you just know. Of course I did, of course. . .
And she is gone in the dust, slipped the bonds of earth and illness, has gone off dancing with my father and is talking to all those relatives in my books and finding out if my stories had any truth to them, the ones I made up but could feel those relatives over my shoulder telling me what to write.
I realized that my empathy for her had turned to sympathy, as things happened to her body I didn’t even know could happen to bodies, horrible things. I realized as she deteriorated and could no longer do what she loved, I joined her in not playing the piano, doing needlework, reading, even writing.
She knew those things, even if she was in a nursing home and I never told her. She just knew.
And a few days after her dying I got the piano turned and play every day. I got out the needlework. I have a little pile of books to read. I am writing.
“Of course I did. . . of course. You enjoy those pretty clothes.”
“Good-bye, Mom.”
“Good-bye, Sweetheart.”

A fine tribute, Carol.

Dear Carol,
Your letting go is so graceful and loving. Your words set your mom's spirit free and in doing that your spirit is lighter. I imagine your mom is smiling. "You enjoy those pretty clothes" pretty much says it. She is glad you have cast off those old weeds and gone forth in gayer raiment.

Love,
Betty

Carol,
you have expressed what love is.

Beautiful, Carol.

I second that, beautiful.

Bless you for sharing that. It was wonderful.

Thank you for your comments.

My family, except my daughter who's plane leaves for Virginia at 7:15 tomorrow morning, has left after many of us have been together for twelve hours today and many in the last week.

Today was the memorial service and some said it was the most beautiful they had ever been to. We worked on it emailing the priests in charge and putting in music, reading by families, etc. My granddaughter sang Amazing Grace like an angel, three family members gave talks about my mother that captured her personality and life magically, and it was a good day of conversation and remembering.

Now for a glass of wine.

I'm sure your mother's love is shining down on you, Carol. Have a blessed night.