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.