End of My World

Well I made it. 

To the other side of my mother’s death.

To the other side of the end of my world.

My mother died the night before Thanksgiving so the holidays were a blur. For months, I felt stuck on a strange time loop still waiting for everyone to arrive for my carefully prepped Thanksgiving weekend - what was to be my first time hosting. 

But the day never came. 

Because mom went into the hospital. 

And then a rehab to get better. 

But then all of a sudden she was gone. 

Just like that - she was gone.

There is no way to anticipate how you will feel when it comes - the moment you lose your mother. It’s a threshold event so momentous it might surprise you that in the very instant, you are reduced to a fallen child, wailing in a puddle of tears on the living room floor, crying out for your “mama, mama!” hoping beyond hope that it’s somehow not real even if a small part of you felt it near.

My mother used to tell me that when I would cry as a baby, to comfort me she would hold me and say —

“I’m right here. 

Mamas with you.

I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

In the days and weeks following her death, I’d cry out in my mind, “mama where did you go? can you hear me? are you safe?” I kept asking, “where are you? where are you?” over again. I needed to know where she had gone. If I didn’t know where she was, how could I access her? I didn’t stop needing my mom just because she died.

So I spied and spied with my little eye for something that reminded me of her. I used my senses to draw from anywhere for a sign, and I drew comfort in the few things I found. 

Like the bundle of flowers I was inexplicably drawn to at the market, hidden beneath a mound of dried flowers, Larkspur - the name of the street mom lived on just before she gave birth to me. “Hi, mom” I whispered before taking the bundle home. Or the music that swelled as we walked into the stained glass church for Christmas Eve candlelight service, where they were playing a holy rendition of Silent Night - her favorite. Or the woman on the street who looked exactly like my mom, only younger and completely vibrant, giving me a clear reminder of how she is now - no pain or suffering or fear.

Ever since she’s been gone, I’ve had an unrelenting pull to write it all down - the memories, the stories, the butterfly spotted in the air.

But what I didn’t expect, is that in this space - the Writing Place - is where I would be able to feel her the most. When I’m deeply rooted in, I can actually feel her presence near me as if she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, assuring me - “Yes, I’m here, Liz. I can be with you any hour of the day or night. Just put hands to the keys, start typing and write.

Through my finding and my writing, I can almost hear her voice,

“I’m right here. 

Mamas with you.

I’m not going anywhere, baby.”

                                                                                                                                             photo by Ale Vidal