Just got back from walking the dog. The snow is "squeaking underfoot," as Mom used to say. That means it's really cold. In the past when I've thought about loved ones passing away, I always hoped it wouldn't happen in the winter. The thought, "that they should lay (them) in the cold, cold ground," as Ophelia laments about her father's passing, distressed me......, but not enough to drive me crazy. Surpisingly now, however, I haven't really thought about Mom being buried beneath a foot of snow and six feet of frozen earth. I know she's not there....only her mortal trappings. At the cemetery after the funeral, Dad had a difficult time leaving her there, not b/c of her being in the cold, cold ground, but b/c he had to leave her--something he hadn't done in nearly 63 years. And we're trying not to leave Dad alone too much.
I'm back home with him now for a few days. I called him before I left my house to find out what the weather was like. He wasn't home so I got the answering machine. Mom's voice still cheerfully invited me to, "Please leave a message; we'll call back." I hadn't heard her voice in over two weeks, and I wasn't prepared. I couldn't leave a message. Dad wouldn't have been able to understand me anyway.
I've always enjoyed coming home, but today's return was the first time that Mom didn't come racing out the front door to greet me. Even during this last year when she was so very tired, she still met me at the front door with a hug. I've been coming home to this house for 27 years. The first 10 of those my room remained exactly the same, including everything on my bulletin board from my senior year of high school. My older siblings called it the "shrine," and proof that as the baby, I was the most spoiled. This house of my youth holds the warmth and familiarity of a favorite flannel shirt.
I'm typing this on Mom's computer. Her shoes are just beneath me, right where she took them off the last time. Yes, the floor has been swept, but the shoes remain. I noticed Dad has moved some of her clothes from the rocking chair in their bedroom to the dresser there. Baby steps. The day after Mom passed, Dad brought me one of her blouses that had just been washed and said it needed to be ironed. I placed it on the rocking chair. We cleaned out the last of the frozen apples and kale that Mom had put up last year, and Dad unplugged the freezer that had been running since they bought it in the 1970's. Baby steps. It's easier for me to take them here. I thought it would be easier for me to grieve in my own home away from all the physical reminders of Mom. I was wrong. To look up at her sprinkling can collection and sit in her computer chair is comforting.
I know Mom's not in the cold, cold ground. She's home w/ her Savior, who I'm sure greeted her at the front door w/ a hug.
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