I really wanted to call my mother today. But she died in 2020 and isn’t available by phone.
It’s a hard moment when you realize that you’ve stop missing someone in the “presence” tense and realize your relationship with them what lives in your memories. When it happened with my Dad (who died in 1995) it shocked me and sent me back into a state of grief and guilt. Even thought I had not, I couldn’t help but feel that I’d forgotten about him.
When it happened with my daughter (who died in 2009), I didn’t react in quite the same visceral way because experience told me it would happen.
I was missing my mother today. She died in 2020. I used to call her when I was in the car, driving from here to there, always on the way home from work (before my 2019 retirement) and always on the way to or from officiating a wedding. She was my travel buddy, and I have a small pendant with some of her cremated ashes hanging from the rear-view mirror in the car. If I can’t call her, at least I know she’s with me.
There I was, driving to Logan Airport to pick up friends (Heather and Digger) who were returning from an adventure in Ireland. It would have been the perfect opportunity to spend 20 or 30 minutes on the phone with my mother. She’d have wanted to know all about H & D, been thrilled to know they have two dogs (and a cat) and that they are wonderful friends and neighbors. I’d have promised to take her to meet The Herd the next time she was in the neighborhood.
But I had to make the drive by myself. Absent Marcia I turned to Pink Floyd, and I played it loud.
I think Marcia was on my mind because I pulled the trigger on a new adventure yesterday. I’ve been playing with the idea of publishing a new book for a few years now. I‘ve written pieces of it and decided about a week ago that it was time to pull it together and put a publishing plan in motion.
I sent my draft to a trusted friend to give it a first edit.
My book is about my Pretty Girl. It’s about her death and how I’ve learned to live her living in my heart instead of in my earthly world.
I have working title (I’ll share the final in good time) and ideas about a cover (again, later).
I think this is why my mother was on my mind today. She’d be proud of my effort. I’d warn her that I’m not sure she’ll want to read it because I can’t imagine the pain it would bring to her heart to read about her child admitting to the pain in her heart.
I’ll understand if it might be too much for those who are close to me to read. But maybe they’ll find some comfort know that I’ve come to terms with where my life has taken me and that I’m grateful for every moment I’ve had, even the ones that hurt the most.
The Third Page 