So now it's September. And I last wrote in April when it was not quite Spring, and the month held promise of Easter and my birthday and a vacation on the May horizon. And then my world began to change, ever so subtly at first. My sweet mom began to lose her hold on this world, little by little, until it became obvious that we needed to arrange for more care for her. And arrange we did, and rearranged and rearranged, until we finally understood that she wasn't going to stay with us any longer. It came as a shock, as much to her, I think, as to us. And still she faded slowly, like the beautiful roses that she grew and loved all her life. When the final moment came it was so quiet that I wasn't sure what woke me, asleep in the recliner in her room. I just knew that she had gone, that somehow she had let me know she was going, and that now I was alone. She had gone on to find her own mother waiting on the other side of the veil sometimes so thin, yet still so impenetrable. Seventy-seven years since they had shared their last hug. What a moment that must have been. I feel sure my father stood back, urging LaRu to go first, to greet her only daughter. And then the sweet reunion with all the others Mom held so dear.
And here, we held a reunion of sorts ourselves. My brothers and I reminded ourselves that we were still family and always would be. I felt my focus begin return to my own immediate family, my husband, children, and grandbabies. And while Kevin and I still had (and have!) a lot to do to wind up our parents' estate, we are learning and reaffirming the importance of family and trying to put that above business concerns.
Funerals can be amazingly defining moments. I gave my mother's "life sketch" and Kevin gave her "tribute." Susan Warner, a neighbor, talked about Alice as the friend and neighbor she had known for 40+ years. And as we talked, my mom came into focus so clearly again. Not the frail little mom of the last months, but the confident, capable, energetic mom of my youth. And I remembered her passion for life – for cooking, for flowers, for people.
And then just a couple of weekends ago Art and I discussed over dinner his new-found passion for running – a sport he hasn't paid much attention to since he left the track team in high school. He loves how it makes him feel so alive, so vital. And I wondered... what is my passion? Do I even have one? I thought about it all night, upset with myself because I have let myself become so taken up with the "shoulds" that I have forgotten what any "want to's" are.
But the next morning was Saturday and I had two flats of raspberries in the fridge waiting to be made into jam and a promise to my kids that they would find homemade bread at my house later in the day. So I heaved a sigh and went back to my "shoulds." And then a strange thing happened. As I moved around my kitchen, measuring sugar, boiling the pectin, setting the bread dough to rise, I remembered my passion: I love "keeping the home." (And that term is another post for another day.) I love making good things to eat, organizing my cupboards, stitching, sewing, even laundry. And I remembered something else. This passion? It's a legacy from my mother, who blessed us all with her cooking and canning and sewing and cut flowers. So good to know that a small spread of raspberry jam on warm homemade bread will always bring her back.
