Three Years

The date might seem a little off. My mother died on December 2, 2008, and according to the calendar, this post is premature. But her passing took us all by surprise the Tuesday after Thanksgiving, so today feels like the day even though the calendar says it’s not. The heart must keep its own anniversaries.

Aggie, ca. 1943

After three years, the biggest chunks of grief have resolved as much as they’re likely to. I can drive along the street where she lived without thinking I should stop in to visit. Big band music doesn’t make me cry anymore. I get nostalgic, but not heartbroken, at the sight of flowers like the ones she used to grow on the farm. I no longer believe I will feel better if I move to another house or get a career or have a little plastic surgery, even though I seriously considered all of them in that first year or two after she died. When the brain fog lifted a bit, it became clear that no matter where I live or what big changes I make, nothing can fill the hole her absence has left. Lacking any choice in the matter, I accept this. Resignation will have to substitute for resolution.

Aggie & Fred, 1947

I have given up wishing my mother’s life had been different. Mostly. It’s a hard habit to break, even though it’s an obvious waste of time. Tragedy makes more interesting storytelling, and many aspects of Mom’s existence truly were harder than she deserved, but I’m starting to see that portraying her as a victim does her an injustice. No matter what was going on, she always managed to carve out a corner where she could do what she enjoyed in the company of people who loved her. I don’t know if she ever expected to be happy, but maybe that corner was enough.

Aggie, early 1950s

I feel a bit untethered without her, which you could take to mean either “without anchor” or “free,” and both would be true. As in, “Huh. Nobody needs me.” Or, “Yay! Nobody needs me.” My phone is quieter than when Mom was alive and couldn’t remember something I’d just told her an hour earlier. I am not on a first-name basis with her pharmacist, dentist, or physician  anymore. I don’t do her shopping, manage her finances, arrange her appointments, provide her transportation, pay her bills, or dose her medications. These days, I’m only responsible for my own household. For months after she died, I didn’t know what to do with all the extra time. Now I write a blog and am working on a book. I’m a hospice volunteer, a job that feels more valuable than anything I could get paid to do. When my friends want to see me, I have time. One of these days, I’ll be taking care of someone again. This is just a breather between gigs.

Aggie & Michelle, Easter 1968

Still…

Even though I know I should keep moving forward, I call Mom back now and then. I take her to Granville and make her live in a drafty farmhouse with no heat upstairs. She is very patient and allows me to dress her in faux Chanel suits and pillbox hats like a 1960s paper doll. If I listen carefully, I can hear her singing at the piano or swearing at a painting she’s working on because the Virgin Mary’s hands don’t look right. We go to the library or visit her friends. Sometimes I just lie on her bed and talk to her. She doesn’t stay long, though. She doesn’t belong here anymore. Besides, she hates to see me cry.

“Tomorrow will be a better day,” she promises before she goes.

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