Eighteen years ago tomorrow I melted into the couch trying to disappear while I processed the fact that my mother was dead.  I didn’t want everyone gathered around me.  I didn’t want to talk about it.  I didn’t want to react in front of anyone.  I just wanted to soak into the beige cushions and have my moment, but at 12 years old everyone expected something different, something extravagant and wild that required taming and tending.  I didn’t.  I absorbed the information and took a shower, because it was the only place I could go and not be followed.  I spent the next several days trying to gauge what was expected of me.  I helped plan a funeral for the first time.  I went with my best friend and her mom to buy something nice to wear with no idea what acceptable mourning attire for someone in my position could possibly be.  I settled on a navy blue skirt with flowers on it.  My goth stage wouldn’t flood my life with black until a year or so later.

Eighteen years ago today, however, was a very different experience.  One of life.

You always remember the last time you heard someone’s voice before they leave your world.  I remember her laughter and her words.  I remember mine.  I have since had to uproot my guilt over not going to visit as I had promised and how nonchalantly I threw in that last “love you, bye” as only adolescence can cast.  She was coming home the next day.  I was excited, but I didn’t feel any particular need to drag it out over the phone.  This would change how I handle phone calls, I-love-yous, and anticipation for the rest of my life, because the next day she simply didn’t come home.

Yesterday I took a walk around the cemetery to clear my head.  Eighteen years after the last time I hugged her my mom is still the best friend I go to for guidance, as I’ve developed a habit of laying on the grass under the tree she’s buried near and telling her all the things I can’t articulate anywhere else.  It’s the only place I can reach the voice inside me that has answers, because the part of her that lives within me is something I wasn’t capable of recognizing as a preteen.

One of the things I inherited from my mother was her capacity to see the good in people.  Whatever she called it, that woman embraced the spirit of Aloha in the very air she breathed.  No one was ever turned away from her heart, and to those she gave pieces of it too she gave everything.  For a long time I tried to run from that part of myself.   I tried to cage it up, wall it in, and silence it for good.  I hated it.  I hated myself for it.  I struggled for years with the very thing that makes me who I am, because I had let it shine only to have it ripped out, held in front of me, and tortured before my very eyes.  I had watched something beautiful be eviscerated in the name of love, and I couldn’t fathom anything worth experiencing that again.  The lesson from my mother’s last day had not yet sunk in.

So let’s go back to that week.

My mother’s funeral was the first I had ever planned.  The first at which I had ever spoken.  The first I had ever attended.  The first time I had personally shaken Death’s hand had taken from me the most important person in my life, and the seeds of this lesson were planted.  Since then I have been to more funerals than I can count, spoken at many of them, and helped plan seven.  Family, friends, children.  Old, young, unborn.  Sick, sudden, at their own hands.  Loss.  Loss is something you never get used to and something you can never truly plan for no matter how hard you try.  Loss is where the seeds Death planted the day my mother said, “if you’re not coming today, don’t bother, because I’m going home tomorrow” and I chose to stay home instead begin to sprout.  Loss is where those sprouts blossom into regret and sadness every time one of those last conversations is replayed in the back of my mind.  Loss is where I gained the strength and courage to let the part of me which my mother tried so hard to cultivate within me finally be free, because the only thing that can grow taller than Death’s crops in my soul is love.

There are times when I doubt.  There are times when I’m told that opening myself up to love this way makes me weak and vulnerable.  There are times when I’m told it’s ignorant and ugly to let my heart be naked this way.  Not everyone appreciates it.  I’m called crazy, overwhelming, and naive every time I put my heart at risk, but to me this risk is far more acceptable that the one that someone I love never knew it.  In this lesson my mother’s voice lives on.  In this way her heart continues to love.  In this way I am showing her every day how much I loved her and how important she was to me, not just as my mother but as the fire that burns within me.

I’ve written about it before, the reasons I love the way I do.  What it all boils down to is that love is something you can’t do halfway or there’s no point in doing it at all.  It can hurt.  It can burn.  It can tear you apart when you least expect it, but so can regret, fear, and doubt.   At least my way I also run the risk of being happy and loved in return, and that’s the secret my mom knew.

 

mom

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