(I wrote this within about an hour after my mom died on May eleventh while I was waiting for Hospice to come. I wrote it because I want a written account of how I felt in the hopes that it will prove helpful to someone else going through this.)
The breeze is blowing the curtain, cooling you as only a perfect spring breeze can.
You opened your eyes for me this morning as we were bathing you.
You looked right at me and I was thrilled. I had so hoped to have you awake again for even a minute.
“Hi, mom. It’s so good to see your eyes open.”
Quickly, they closed.
Were you telling me to get ready?
I sat on your deck for a few minutes.
I came back in and when I walked into your bedroom, I immediately knew you were leaving me.
In a matter of minutes, you were gone. I kept kissing you and told you how much I loved you as you breathed your last breath.
I thought I was prepared.
I thought I was strong.
There aren’t words to describe the pain.
The Crabtree outside your window is in full bloom.
Somehow, that seems wrong to me.
I think, that like Jesus cursed the fig tree, I should curse it and make it die. It shouldn’t be in bloom when you’re not.
I have been on so many journeys with you, Mom, but I don’t like this one. After four days of sitting by your bedside, I had convinced myself you were going to wake up. So now it’s even harder.
I know you are in heaven.
I know I should be happy for you but I’m just selfish enough to be sad.
The angels are clapping.
You are seeing your beautiful new home.
You are healed and you can walk again and no one is going to nag you about using your walker.
I’m happy for you, Mom, but I hate this. I really, really hate this.
Bye, Mom. I will love you forever.