In less than an hour, it’ll be your birthday, Mom.
I’m remembering a homily that Rene gave, where he talked about grieving and how the sting of loss, not just death, softens over time. Finally, I’ve softened. And it occurs to me that, for years, I’ve been denying the whole fabric of our relationship because there were so many holes, so many rough patches. Forgive me for that.
Sometimes when I look at Ian I see your face and Pook has that fine McGraw hair, plain old brown, until the sun shocks it into a copper shimmer.
I often say to Ian and Pook, “If someone asks something of you and it doesn’t hurt you or anyone else, do it.” I think of you when I say this. Because I know you gave everything away, even your own power. I don’t think you ever recognized what was hurting you. Silence can do that. Inaction can do that. Living towards an image rather than a self can do that. You were always concerned about what other people thought, as if they were somehow better equipped to judge a life they weren’t living.
I expect that where you are now, you flit around being a little devilish, bringing big news, and telling secrets. But since everyone already knows all the secrets, they just smile at you. You must be so happy.
Tomorrow night, so you know you have not been forgotten, we’ll sing to you. I’ll give those boys chocolate. I’ll have some too. And coffee, in your honor.