I have not had words to write of late. My thoughts have been in Illinois. My thoughts have been of uncompleted things. My thoughts have been a-jumble, off-kilter, scrambling for turf, scrambling for traction, scrambling for a level place to gain perspective, to catch my breath. My mother is dying. My mother. And my heart is breaking. My heart is breaking. And I cannot bear it. I cannot.
Who will love me when my mother passes? Who will love me unconditionally?
Like a child I cry, afraid again of the dark; afraid again of the pressure of the universe bearing down on me, crushing me in my dreams. I cry out. My mother wakes me and holds me, and tells me all will be fine; all will be all right. I stumble; she helps me up. I act foolishly; she hugs me tightly. I hurt others; she instructs me. She forgives. She forgives me. She helps me to forgive myself.
A mother’s love. My mother’s love.
The poet Tim Miller wrote –
you know in love that love is the firm center around which
everything moves & suffers & changes — but love never
changes or weakens….
My words have been few of late as my mother moves through this final stage of life. My words have been few as I have struggled to face my fears, as I have struggled to let her go. For who will love me unconditionally when she is gone? Who will offer the acceptance that still registers on her face when she looks up at me? The welcome that still embraces me when I say hello? The last look of farewell when I leave to return home? Who will love me unconditionally…as I have loved her?
Miller, Tim. To the House of the Sun, 117. Glenshaw: S4N Books, 2015.