Our Mother, Gone
My sister called and asked if I was sitting down, and I knew before she said it.
Mom passed in the night. Her heart failed. She died in her sleep.
I wonder sometimes, how that is. Did she wake up and feel something was wrong, and experience her own death? Or did she just fade away in a dream? On one hand, I would want, for her, to think it was peaceful, without fear or pain or struggle. On the other hand, you only die once, right? So might as well experience it, as all that is over soon enough.
She spent the evening before with her new baby grandson. I imagine her going to sleep with a contented smile and Quinn’s baby face filling her heart with love.
I imagine Allison in the morning, when Mom didn’t come down for breakfast, if she had an inkling. Then going into her room and finding her cold body there. Our mother, gone.
Quinn has no memory of it, of course. Yet there is a connection between them, he actually did meet her, and I love that.
When she called, I was on a break from work, outside on the grass. I went to my knees and cried. I hadn’t cried in a long time. A long time.
We had known that her heart was fragile after her heart attack 14 years earlier, so we all felt blessed for her to have those years. And she only had them because she was diligent about her heart-healthy diet, and faithfully walked every morning, and focused on good and positive things in her life, like making cross-stitch flower bookmarks, and the family calendar with her sister, our dear Aunt Barbara, with family photos and inspirational quotes.
It was the first such bad thing to happen to me. I mean, the first loss of someone so dear to me.
I was very close with my mom. When our folks split up, Allison and Shawn stayed with our dad, but I went with Mom. For a lot of my life, it was the two of us together. When she had her heart attack, I was at an age of exploring my own identity, and she was recovering and suffering depression and seeking to find meaning in her life. So we had philosophical conversations about what is meaningful, what is real, what is important, what is ethical. I know that time shaped who I am today, who I have been my whole life.
We were so close, so losing her was tragic, yet also I felt a sense of peace with it that surprised me.
A couple months after, she came to me in a dream. No words, just the presence of her face, smiling with full radiance, saying with her eyes: everything is alright, everything is okay. I can still imagine that moment and feel her, feel her warm encouragement and remind myself in the core of my being that, yes Mom, everything is okay.
Mom passed in the night. Her heart failed. She died in her sleep.
I wonder sometimes, how that is. Did she wake up and feel something was wrong, and experience her own death? Or did she just fade away in a dream? On one hand, I would want, for her, to think it was peaceful, without fear or pain or struggle. On the other hand, you only die once, right? So might as well experience it, as all that is over soon enough.
She spent the evening before with her new baby grandson. I imagine her going to sleep with a contented smile and Quinn’s baby face filling her heart with love.
I imagine Allison in the morning, when Mom didn’t come down for breakfast, if she had an inkling. Then going into her room and finding her cold body there. Our mother, gone.
Quinn has no memory of it, of course. Yet there is a connection between them, he actually did meet her, and I love that.
When she called, I was on a break from work, outside on the grass. I went to my knees and cried. I hadn’t cried in a long time. A long time.
We had known that her heart was fragile after her heart attack 14 years earlier, so we all felt blessed for her to have those years. And she only had them because she was diligent about her heart-healthy diet, and faithfully walked every morning, and focused on good and positive things in her life, like making cross-stitch flower bookmarks, and the family calendar with her sister, our dear Aunt Barbara, with family photos and inspirational quotes.
It was the first such bad thing to happen to me. I mean, the first loss of someone so dear to me.
I was very close with my mom. When our folks split up, Allison and Shawn stayed with our dad, but I went with Mom. For a lot of my life, it was the two of us together. When she had her heart attack, I was at an age of exploring my own identity, and she was recovering and suffering depression and seeking to find meaning in her life. So we had philosophical conversations about what is meaningful, what is real, what is important, what is ethical. I know that time shaped who I am today, who I have been my whole life.
We were so close, so losing her was tragic, yet also I felt a sense of peace with it that surprised me.
A couple months after, she came to me in a dream. No words, just the presence of her face, smiling with full radiance, saying with her eyes: everything is alright, everything is okay. I can still imagine that moment and feel her, feel her warm encouragement and remind myself in the core of my being that, yes Mom, everything is okay.
Wai
Water rushes forth.
Brown at first, thick with mud.
Pausing to spit out an air pocket, gushing forth again.
Spilling over into ditches, around banana clump, down to taro patch.
Clear cold water reaches lo‘i, fills in around thirsty, eager taro plants.
Soil opens to accept flood.
Feel sighs of gratitude, roots receive cool quenching.
Leaves fold to and fro in gentle breeze, waving appreciation.
Golden light of fading day sets green aglow, shadows stretch and yawn.
Friendly soft conversation joined by giggling water flowing down to each next patch,
each splashing bubbling spill its own tone, rhythm, voice.
Scent of orange slim taro blossoms rich, thick in air, like rotting mango, intoxicating.
Fuschia dragonflies dart in intense predation,
then joining in twos for curling mid flight love-dance.
Step into a patch, feel cold water, thick mud between toes.
Scoop a handful of muddy water, pour onto broad dark leaf,
watch in fresh wonder as it beads up like mercury and rolls off,
leaving no slightest hint of moisture or mud behind, it truly never touches.
Smile at beauty, blessing of living water.
Take a long deep breath —Haloa.
Brown at first, thick with mud.
Pausing to spit out an air pocket, gushing forth again.
Spilling over into ditches, around banana clump, down to taro patch.
Clear cold water reaches lo‘i, fills in around thirsty, eager taro plants.
Soil opens to accept flood.
Feel sighs of gratitude, roots receive cool quenching.
Leaves fold to and fro in gentle breeze, waving appreciation.
Golden light of fading day sets green aglow, shadows stretch and yawn.
Friendly soft conversation joined by giggling water flowing down to each next patch,
each splashing bubbling spill its own tone, rhythm, voice.
Scent of orange slim taro blossoms rich, thick in air, like rotting mango, intoxicating.
Fuschia dragonflies dart in intense predation,
then joining in twos for curling mid flight love-dance.
Step into a patch, feel cold water, thick mud between toes.
Scoop a handful of muddy water, pour onto broad dark leaf,
watch in fresh wonder as it beads up like mercury and rolls off,
leaving no slightest hint of moisture or mud behind, it truly never touches.
Smile at beauty, blessing of living water.
Take a long deep breath —Haloa.
