The loss of one's mother, at any age, is immense. The last couple of days have been busy as we worked through arrangements for her funeral, talked to the florist, the funeral director, started going through belongings and discussing other details, and trying to get her affairs in order, some of which have gotten in disarray in the past month as we just got through the days caring for her. There are so many details to deal with - it is overwhelming, especially when you are still exhausted emotionally from the past month's roller coaster ride. But it also allows you to put aside some of the heavier emotions while you deal with it all, which is probably good, at least temporarily.
However, this morning I have been thinking about my mother's hands, and how many times I have held her hand in my life. As a child, she would hold my hand tightly so I couldn't dart into the street or run in front of someone and get in their way. On walks, she would lightly hold my hand to steady me so I wouldn't fall if I tripped over a tree root or uneven ground. (I've always been a klutz.) She was quick to grab my hand over the years, and I am used to the touch of mom's hand on mine.
Over the past few years, she grew more concerned about falling as we walked places outside, especially after a bad fall she took because of an uneven sidewalk. Each time we went somewhere, I carried her purse and held her hand, and we went there together, the two of us. I thought about how years ago, she didn't need a cane, just my arm to walk to the car. Then she decided she better have the cane, too. Eventually, I took her arm, because we thought it would be safer, in case she stumbled. And in the end, I would take her arm and we would hold hands as we walked, because it helped her steady herself, and I think she just liked the silent reassurance that I was there.
She remarked a few weeks ago that I was now caring for her just like she cared for me when I was little, and it was true, even to tucking her in at night. I knew just how she wanted her pillow tucked around her neck, and her shoulders covered. There is comfort in having been able to do that for her, in having been able to provide the care for her that she needed in her final days, just like she cared for me when I needed it as a child. I think that is something my brother and I can take forward with us - we each gave back to her what she gave to us, and the circle of love was, in some ways, unbroken.
Death may end a life, but the journey is not over, certainly not for awhile, and I have a feeling this one never will be. My mother lives on inside my head and my heart, and I still feel my mother's hand in mine. I hope I never forget it. It is the feeling of love, the pure, unadulterated, unearned, unconditional love you can only get from your mother.
