You often hear people talk about moving on after a death, as if you can just leave it behind, like a discarded baggage claim from a trip you really enjoyed or an old blanket that you once loved but no longer need. News flash. Moving on is a lie that people tell you because they are trying to convince themselves that is how it will work for them when their own day comes.
Grief, the real deal grief that you experience when you lose someone fundamental to your life, like a parent, a child, a spouse or a dear friend you cannot live without but suddenly find you must, is a daily presence for quite awhile, even as you move forward. You do what you must. You eat. You sleep. You work. You go through the motions of daily living. You may laugh. You may participate. You may even find enjoyment at times. And that is all good. But grief will live with you in the quiet moments and the loud moments and the fun moments and the hard moments and probably every moment in between. Because to love someone deeply means you will grieve them deeply, as well. And that is okay. Because that is the price of the love you got to share. And what a gift that is.
Right now, 21 days since the last time I hugged my mother in this life, there is not a moment that she is not in my mind. I know that eventually there will be a minute that she will slip from the front of my mind to the back of my mind, and that will be okay. I will laugh, and it will feel good to just be fine. I will not miss her as acutely as I do right now, and it will feel right. She would, and I know this for an absolute fact, because she said so to me, want me to live my life and be happy, moving forward, because we can't live in the past looking backward.
My mother experienced an extraordinary amount of personal loss in her own life, and I once asked her how she could remain so optimistic, and her answer reflected that very attitude. It was a personal answer, meant for me alone, so I will leave it that way. But it was an answer that defined her expectation of how I would handle her own death, as well. She would expect me to miss her, of course. She knew I would be devastated and lonely without her, because that was inevitable. She understood I would miss her wise counsel, and that she was irreplaceable in my life. All of that goes without saying. We were as close as a mother and daughter can be, and she knew and understood that her loss would be shattering for me.
But she also set a clear expectation that I would pick myself up and move forward with joy and optimism, that I would live for the future, that I would continue her tradition of working hard and living generously and being a good steward, and that I would continue to make her proud, no matter what. Because I am ultimately her daughter, and that is what we do. We are strong, independent women, and we endure, we survive, and ultimately we thrive, no matter what life throws in our path.
I have always said my mother was my ultimate role model, and in this, as everything else, I will continue to follow her example. She lost her own mother at age 23, and she endured that loss throughout her long and productive life. She never stopped missing her mother - she told me at age 99 she missed her mother terribly and longed to hear her voice again. But she didn't allow that grief to cloud her happiness or interrupt her optimism moving forward. My mother always seemed able to hold all the emotions together in one basket, balancing as she needed to, and as the occasion called for. I will strive to do the same over time.
And ultimately, although I don't carry her DNA, I do carry her voice and her heart and her constant love and 60 some years of guidance inside my head and my heart. I hear her words. I feel her hand in mine after all those years of holding it. I can smell her perfume, and the scent of her bread. I can still taste her apple pie, and maybe I will have to learn to make it for my own grandchildren, now. I can see her on Christmas Eve, pulling the food out of the oven at the farm while we waited in anxious anticipation of yet another wonderful meal. I can picture her in her red coat with her farm boots wound in duct tape and her crampons, walking to the barn to feed her cats. I can imagine sitting in the living room watching game shows with her, and I can pull out her robe and feel the softness of it, which reminds me of her.
Love is not bound by this life. As long as I remember, I have the love of my mother. She took a big piece of my heart with her the day she left us, but she left a piece of her heart with me, too. Love never dies, as long as we remember. And oh, how much there is to remember, even as we move forward.
