sorting, sort of

My mother was an organizer before it became a profession. As I further sorted her already meticulously sorted things last night, I had to laugh at the prospect of her coaching those of us who are organizationally-impaired. Her approach would have been straight-forward: Get rid of it. Funny.

I may have to join a recovery group to get over my native inclination to take things that others have decided need to go. Even with my mom, I'd haul things away with me so that she didn't have to worry about how to deal with her cast-offs. I then had to face the results my years of cycling (not recycling) stuff when I moved. So now that she's gone maybe I won't be so tempted to be as "helpful" anymore. On the other hand, deciding what to keep and what to pass along is giving me the chance to truly benefit others and it's been surprisingly easy. It's kind of like having a friendship garden only with furniture and things...

I think she'd approve.

taps

"One touch of sorry makes the whole world kin." Earl Grollman

So many people that I would not have known otherwise have come into my life because of my mother. Thank you. And to those whom I have known for so long: Thank you for your faithfulness.

ripe for the picking

Memories and reminders are everywhere.

Yesterday I passed a landscape worker as he was tamping a pile of loam (rich soil if you don't know) using the back side of a steel rake. Immediately I thought of my dad who'd worked so diligently on his lawn. He'd had his fill of vegetable gardens when he was growing up during the hardscrabble days of the Depression, so he preferred to cultivate a nice sea of green with occasional flowers providing accents.

And just a few minutes later I was settled in with the last of my morning tea when I noticed a young sparrow -- a fledgling with tufts of downy feathers -- on the railing outside. It had plumped itself down, no doubt exhausted by the effort it had taken to fly over here, and soon another sparrow hopped over to place seeds from my feeder into his/her gaping mouth. I'd figured that if the young 'un had managed to get that far that it would be able to feed itself, but there she was -- the eternal mom -- helping out. I'm not sure how old the chick was in bird years, but laughed at the possibility that I was witnessing the avian version of the boomerang generation -- once moved out of the nest but now returning. Made me wonder how long a mother is a mother. Always is probably a pretty good estimate. My mom still was -- still is -- and my friend as well.

Yeah, memories are everywhere, just ripe for the picking.

if it looks like grief...

Friend E showed up at the door the other morning and her face collapsed when she saw my tear-stained face.

I told her that it was okay...that it was just the music. I'd been listening to the score from "Out of Africa" before she arrived. Another friend had made a tape for me years ago and inexplicably I'd pulled it to bring with me when I made the pilgrimage home this time. Joel died in 1994 and perhaps the music had reminded me of him just then. Maybe not.

Anyway, I told E that I'd just been listening and eating a breakfast banana as my tears fell. Then I'd begun to laugh as I realized that I was crying and eating a banana. It doesn't even sound funny now, but there was a kind of absurdity at the time. Don't look for it to make sense.

...if it feels like grief, then it's probably grief.

familiarity

Had to write a thank you to my mother's neighbors this morning and found myself saying how comforted I am being here with everything and everyone that's familiar. Made me curious about the word and, in part, it means "informal, easy, unceremonious, unconstrained." Welcome to my world.

Yesterday I dedicated the morning to writing a letter filled with hysterical anecdotes about my mother's younger sister Catherine. Cass was the family clown and inevitably got into comically absurd situations wherever she went. My mother would tell me about the kid sister who'd poked holes in the bottoms of the chocolates that mom's dates would bring. She wanted to make sure that she pilfered only her favorites. The stories themselves would be unremarkable for anyone other than those who knew the woman that I'd thought of as the Lucy of our family.

So yesterday morning was for writing to her two daughters and granddaughter, making a pot of Irish tea in her honor, lighting a candle near a photo of Cass and my mother together -- one of my favorites, and watching a video of a family reunion at 11 a.m..

Cass had died 48-hours after my mother.

Grief is physical. I didn't attempt to drive to a distant state for her service -- I couldn't trust myself at this time. So I honored Catherine in a way that I hope she would have liked. And I will do the same for my mother in the days and weeks ahead.

I've needed the familiar: this apartment, photos, a special mug, friends and family, kind neighbors, walks through old neighborhoods, writing in my journal, my mother's things. They comfort and fortify me for coping with the inevitable forms, procedures and customs that accompany death. I'm relying on the familiar to help me through this unfamiliar but recognizable place and time of grief.

lilacs

There was a basket with tea and fresh lilacs waiting for me when I arrived.

My mom died Friday, June 3, and when I arrived at her apartment, there by the door were lilacs left by a lifelong friend. Just last Friday morning -- only hours before my mom's death -- I'd noticed that the lilacs in my area had "gone by" and the thought crossed my mind that we have to let those springtime flowers go in order to enjoy daylilies and other summer blooms. It's especially hard because the lilacs are my favorite, but they all are only temporary and all too fleeting.

But when I arrived in my hometown the lilac bushes here were still in full flower. What a gift. Then P's lovely remembrance. Earl Grollman says, "Every touch of sorrow makes the whole world kin." My friends truly are kin...and never more than now.

And the lilacs. Once a fragrant reminder of childhood and my grandparents' place, now they'll forever be a lovely, bittersweet reminder of my mother.

In loving memory of Dot.