Me here at last on the ground/You in mid-air

Dear Mama,

Six months ago tonight, I held your hand for the last time. I kissed your forehead. Smoothed your hair, touched the crease between your eyebrows. I frown in the exact same way. 

Because you were mine, even though your heart was no longer beating, it felt OK to touch you. To hold your hand. To feel your fine, smooth skin.

I knew that once we left, I'd never have this opportunity again. I could talk to you, of course, but not touch you warm and still looking and feeling like my mother.

I saw your body again, twice, but you were far away.

***

That night, six months ago, Nick and I agreed that if the kids were already asleep when we got home from the hospital, we wouldn't wake them. We'd tell them tomorrow.

And then India heard the car and ran to open the back door.

She saw the bags and said, "WHY ARE YOU CARRYING NANA'S THINGS?"

And then I crumpled. And she crumpled into me.

***

There's a box of stuff we brought home from the hospital that I've been almost unable to touch.

Your glasses, your weekly planner, medications, things like that. 

There's even a page from an old calendar I'd made for you, a huge photo from our trip to Toronto years ago. I taped it to your wall to cheer you. One of the nice nurses moved it with your stuff and hung it on the wall in the ICU.

I've diminished the pile a little over time, removing things like hospital toiletries. It's the everyday objects like your padded eyeglass case, which you used all the time, that wreck me.

When you went into crisis, the staff had packed everything from your regular room into big plastic hospital bags, and in the 12 or so hours you were in the ICU, there was no reason to unpack anything. There was no time to settle in and look forward.

It made it easier, physically, to collect your things when it was time to go.

***

When I told one of my yoga friends, who is in his 70s, that I had breast cancer, he said, "It's a blessing your mom isn't here to worry about this."

Which frankly hadn't occurred to me.

But yes. This is one trauma you didn't have to live through.

I can see how it's a blessing. 

It just selfishly doesn't feel like one.

***

India's taller than me now. 

If you were still here, the kids would do to you what they do to me. They walk up and stand very very close. So I can be reminded of how much taller they are than me.

Now I'm the shortest one in the house. Except Wanda.

***

Yesterday I went to get my physical. 

The first question the nurse asked as he was updating my chart was, "Is your mother still alive?"

It caught me so off guard, I started to cry. I said no, that you'd died in May.

And he said he was sorry. His mom had died when he was 18, and losing his mom was the worst pain he'd ever been in. She's been gone 24 years, he said, and it still hurts.

We agreed that it hurts so much more than everything else either of us have lived through.

And then, because I'm me, we talked about his country and depression and stigma and his husband. He looked at my birthday and noted that I'm a Leo. Being a Virgo, he always clicks with Leos.

I told him you were a Virgo, and agreed.

He and his husband will probably end up invited to a Christmas dinner, if we ever host one again.

You know this. 

When he was putting all the little sticky things on for my EKG he said, "Wow! You're in amazing shape!"

I didn't tell him that I was the fittest person you knew.

***

We're going to England for Christmas. I told Nick and the kids in May that I wasn't doing Christmas this year. We have to go away.

I remember you saying that you never needed to worry, because your mom did all your worrying for you.

And I've never had to make things beautiful, because you did all of that for me. 

All the mantles with candles and pine cones and sparkles. You put everything together exquisitely. It was fancy but homey.

I loved it.

You wrapped packages perfectly. Not just with the paper crisp and even and the ends nicely folded under. Also with bows and ribbons and lovely little details.

They were just sumptuous and pretty.

I know how time works, and I know the problem with time is that it just takes so long. 

But being so familiar with grief, I know that at some point I'll be willing to pull out the wreaths you made, and decorate the tree with all the ornaments from childhood.

I'll take out your ribbon bag and go through your collection of wrapping paper.

Maybe I'll even make sticky buns.

But not this year.

*** 

I've been wearing some of your clothes.

Not your sweaters. That drawer still smells like you. I don't want that to dissipate.

When Maude was here, we went through your shoes, and she took some. She's been wearing your San Miguel de Allende cocktail combat boots. This brings both of us tremendous joy. 

I found an old bottle of Arpege on your dresser. It smells like the you of my childhood. Or actually, the you of my life until Dad died.

I walk around your rooms, opening your closets and drawers, telling you I miss you. I miss you I miss you I miss you. 

I stay until it hurts. Sometimes this is a minute, sometimes it's half an hour.

I'm slowly removing and giving away unsentimental clothing and objects.

You know, I took your creativity and sense of humor for granted. There are reminders on every wall, every door, really, everywhere.

You taped the kids' art to your walls. You used closet doors as inspiration boards.

New Yorker poetry and cartoons are sprinkled in.They're beautiful and funny in turn.

I wish we'd had more time.

***

At some point on the afternoon of your last day, though we didn't yet know it was your last day, it became apparent that you were never coming home. Even before you and I had the conversation where you said enough.

My friend Alexa, who didn't know how extreme the situation was, texted me to say that you were surrounded by loved ones. It was very crowded in your room.

They were all waiting for you.

***

I made the card above for your service, which was truly lovely. I'll write about it.

The back of the card has the lyrics for You Are My Sunshine.

On the day of the service, India looked at the cards closely, and pointed into your hair and said, "Mama! Look!"

I'd put your photo on a template, and missed the words Sample Text because your hair was so dark.

I told her Nana would think it was funny. Which is true. You would.

It's been six months, and I miss you. I love you and I miss you all the time. I just miss you.

Love, 

Lisa