I am swimming down Da Nial. In and out I go from the stream to the land of the living where I find myself talking to my dead mother. My mother always talked to her dead sister, mother, brothers. I use to hate it. Now, it is my turn. I made fun of her. Who is going to make fun of me? Roberta, of course, because that is what best friends are for. They make each other laugh to numb the pain. Laughter is the Great Novocaine. Best friends distract you from the pain and the sadness so you can catch your emotional breath and go on to the business of living. More and More I think of how hard I was on my mother. I can only hope Bernice, her best friend, was able to distract her from any pain I may have caused. I often asked "Where were you all those years I needed guidance and braces, and directions for how to navigate through the wild forests of West Rogers Park which really was just a wholesome neighborhood made up of alleys, gangways and laundry rooms and basements where kids played, and hid, and sometimes smoked cigarettes or made out. I never made out back then, okay once maybe in Eileen D.’s basement but I kept my lips tightly closed, I swear. Cigarettes, now they showed up in our own little apartment thanks to my older brother. My mom did not fight with us or kick us out when we started smoking. My mom also did not take me to an orthodontist until I asked her. And then she found a friend of my Uncles who turned out to be a lousy orthodontist. Why wasn’t she more “on top of things”? I was always demanding an explanation for decades after my childhood had evaporated. " Didn’t you realize the responsibility of parenting?" It always seemed to my childish mind that my mother had no idea as to what to do to make sure I was going to live up to the grand potential I had deluded myself into thinking was my birthright.
It took several years of therapy, not to mention the road of trying on different therapists until I found the one that fit, before I was finally able to look in the rear view mirror and see what really happened. Life is a metaphor for driving and I did not learn how to drive until I was 25. I did not understand the need for side mirrors or a rear view mirror. But “life is a highway” and you are going need to merge and change lanes, and suddenly, those mirrors can make the difference between life and death. My mother never learned how to drive, yet, she managed to do a great deal of traveling over a long period of time. Perhaps she really was a soul from way beyond who did not need those mirrors to get her to her destination.
My mother must have felt like she got run over by a truck when my dad died. It was only one year after her sister died. Her sister, the oldest of the five, was more like her mother. I know with the certainty that only a daughter can have, losing her sister was the greater loss of the two. And there I was always criticizing, demanding, expecting. Now as I alternately bathe myself in the Rivers of Da Nial and Sa Row I cannot fathom how my mom even made it through one day. I always wanted her to move forward and more importantly to look at me. I was what mattered. The past was gone. The dead are gone forever.
So why in the world am I sitting here stuck and wanting to drown myself in the River of Sa Row. I have two children, a loving husband, great friends, a cute dog, and I can’t figure out how to register my daughter for Fall Soccer on Line. The frustration leads me to want to dump the responsibility of even this tiny task on my husband’s already overflowing cart. I have to get my son nice shoes, and it is just another chore that suddenly seems overwhelming because my mother passed away on April 20, 2010.
I miss her so much and I know I can never live up to what an incredible woman she was. I did not do enough for her to let her know. I pushed her all the time, to move on, to forget about it, to suck it up. She wanted praise, attention and love and I kept hounding her to just be there for me, do this for me, think about me. We were wrapped around each other like a braided rope so we could pull more weight behind us and now I am only half as thick and no longer as strong without her. I keep imagining the sand colored rope tightly twisted. It unraveled as she slowly lost her battle to live and breathless. How much weight can I bear without her?
I need to cry for a 1,000 years and yet, I can only allow myself stolen minutes when no one is around because I know better. My children need me. I have to buy my son shoes and get my daughter signed up for soccer. What will they say about me one day when they look back? Will they say " I needed her and she was so wrapped up in her own grief from losing her mother she could barely be there for me. Why didn’t she go out and get a job so I would not have to take out student loans for college? How hard could it have been? Other mother’s worked. I know the economy was bad at the time, but she seemed smart and resourceful, so what was the problem?” I will point them to the drawers filled with my journals, and pray they can find it in their hearts to forgive me.
I miss my mother but what I miss more is that I don’t think I lavished enough praise on her for what she accomplished in life and I fear she did not know how incredible I thought she was and how I realize now all the mountains she had to climb to get us to where we last saw each other. She has left me alone up here on the top looking across the landscape of our lives. Up here I should be able to see 360 degree around. I am afraid because the path behind is clear but the view ahead is covered in clouds and now I have to climb down by myself. I am frightened my one strand of the rope will not hold me or prevent me from tumbling down.
My mother was so remarkable. I keep hearing stories of people whose lives spiraled out of control, who cannot afford medicine, or their own home or even money for food. My mother made sure she had enough money to never be a burden. She took care of herself, and still had enough to be generous to others. I have beautiful straight teeth. Did it really matter how I got them? She paid for all of it. She could not go around networking with other mothers to find the best orthodontist because she was too busy making sure we all were safe and comfortable. And we were. I have to try harder to be more like her. Funny, I grew up wanting not to be like her at all. I resented so many things and now I see how a child’s view of an adult's struggles is a lot like trying keep your eyes open under water. It burns so you either get goggles or keep your lids closed tightly. I must have been closing my eyes.
To the rest of the world it was quite apparent that my mother and I were exactly alike. It never was to either of us. It was not that we were identical. It was that we were simply two pieces of the same braid, woven together so we could bear more weight, pull more hope out of life, and move up the mountains. In gym I never was able to climb the rope, but in life, my mother and I were the rope. Is she ringing the bell at the top for us to let me know she got there okay? I can’t hear a thing under the water in the River of Sa Row.
I am all that is left of you Becky. I want to go back to our building, our Tara and think about us and look in the windows where the bedrooms we shared were and remember every moment, good and bad, and whisper to the yellow bricks, we are still inside, together, forever. Don’t ever let that building fall down or crumble to the ground dear lord. It is a sacred place in my heart and soul. It was “The Building” and Becky was the “Landlord.”. I am beyond the block now, on a mountain where it is cold and the ground is rocky. I hope my pen can become a staff to help me steady my self on the way down.
BLOCKS
.
I grew up on the 6200 Block of North Rockwell in Chicago
I am a Chip off the Old Block
And now I have Writer’s Block.
On the Block where I lived were bungalows and apartment buildings
Block by Block an entire Neighborhood was formed
Brick by Brick the bungalows and apartment buildings became containers for lives, and stories blocking the view inside from the outside world.
Blocked views meant secrets could be formed and secrets are dangerous like cancer because they can lay dormant for years before they begin spreading.
A blocked view prevents you from seeing so how will you know which way to go?
What if the Road you need is Blocked Off?
You will find yourself searching for unmarked Detours in order to get to your destination.
This Road I am on now is Blocked Off.
Is the sorrow blocking my view?
Blocks can be toys or learning tools too.
Children playing with blocks create Towers and Tunnels
Blocks with letters and numbers build words and equations
B A T or 1 + 2 = 3, or 3 – 2 = 1
Blocks of Ice
Minute by minute
Melting
Water flowing
Back into the streams of denial and sorrow
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Distracters
I need to find a way begin writing with regularity and discipline. I thought I was finally in the flow the other day, but I allowed myself to be interrupted and I never got back into the stream. It was the wrong thing to do. I was writing and I let them in… those little distracters… my husband, my kids, my friends, and my memories of my mother. All these people want me to do something for them. My husband wants me to find a plumber. My son needs me to make an appointment for him at the eye doctor so he can get new contact lenses. My daughter needs me to drive her to a friend’s house so they can hang out. My friend wants me to join her in meaningless outings because she wants to comfort me and does not know how. My memory of my mother….wants me to bring her back to life, if only in a Hologram created in my mind.
Even worse, one word can lead me into a long and winding detour where I come upon endless ideas that never develop beyond embryos. For example, the above paragraph, the word “distracters” leads me to think there is a Science Fiction/Fantasy story hiding inside my mind. But I know there isn’t. The mere thought itself is simply another distraction.
Help, I am trapped in my own mind and I cannot get out…
Even worse, one word can lead me into a long and winding detour where I come upon endless ideas that never develop beyond embryos. For example, the above paragraph, the word “distracters” leads me to think there is a Science Fiction/Fantasy story hiding inside my mind. But I know there isn’t. The mere thought itself is simply another distraction.
Help, I am trapped in my own mind and I cannot get out…
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Mother's Day
When you are nine years old and your dad dies, the most important thing in the world is to make sure your mom never re-marries. The thought of another man in your life or hers is unbearable. My mom never remarried. I do not know if it was because she was following my wishes, or her first marriage was so difficult she had nothing left for another try. Over the many years following my father’s passing, I honored my mother on both Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day since she assumed both roles in my life. The story of how that started was posted on this blog last year in June. I think it is worth repeating.
*******************
I remember the first father’s day without my father. It was June 1970. It was towards the end of 4th Grade. We were still in school back then well towards the end of June. I only wish my children spent as much time in School now as we did back then. We would go until the third week in June, and started again the day after Labor Day. We did not have “Institute Days”, “Half Days,” or “Teachers are just sick of teaching so keep all your kids at Home Today Days”. If we wanted to stay home for a personal reason such as a religious Holiday, an illness, or a death in the family, a note was required. It was more like a Vacation Day taken from a full time job if you were lucky enough to have a job that gave you Vacation Days. I have no idea if my father’s factory job at Zenith offered him Vacation Days, but I cannot imagine it did. I bet he had a time card and would have to punch in, but I will never know.
My father died in March of 1970 in a car accident. Decades later when a co-worker of mine lost her father she came to my cubicle seeking a soul mate, someone who could “feel her pain” and understand what she was going through. Soon, most of the girls from the office joined us. We were a close knit group of young women working long hours for pennies at a non-profit agency. We had all gone to the wake for “Jane’s” (pseudonym) dad the day before. Her father died of some disease. Jane asked me how my dad died and I said “in a car accident.” Then in all her innocent overwhelmed state she asked me “Was it a bad accident?” I paused for a while and then in my polished dark humor which one can only develop if their childhood has seen a trauma or two, I replied: “Well, he did die. How bad did you want it to get? The guy had the nerve to wreck the car too!” I started laughing at my own joke and soon everyone who had gathered in my cubicle was hysterically laughing including the girl who had just buried her own father. It was probably my comedic delivery with the exaggerated waving hands and escalating voice that drew the laughter, but no matter, it still provided a much needed emotional release.
I learned at a young age to use humor as a way to cope with answering awkward questions. I have my father to thank for that. But back in 1970 I was a 9 year old child faced for the first time with the dilemma of getting out of an uncomfortable situation. Mrs. English, my 4th Grade teacher stood at the front of the class and said that the day’s Art Lesson would be to make a Father’s Day card. She passed out the blue construction paper and told us to get our crayons out. We sat in rows of wooden desks nailed to the hard wood floors along with our chairs. None of the furniture moved so if a kid was overweight he/she would have had a hard time “squeezing” in between the desk and the chair attached to it. Everyone else in the class would notice. This was one major incentive not to stick out by being overweight when I was growing up.
The first person in each row was given a small stack of the construction paper and told to take one and pass the rest back. I got my piece of paper and passed the remaining pieces behind me while trying not to turn around much so none of the other children would see my frightened eyes. I did not know what to do. Everyone in the class had a father except me. Or at least that is what I thought. I can never know for sure I guess. But I know everyone else knew I did not have a father. They knew when I did not come to school for an entire week that previous March. They even had an Art Lesson where they made Condolence Cards for me which one student and her mother brought to our apartment while we were sitting shiva. I will be 49 this July and I still have the box of those little hand made condolence cards from my 4th grade classmates. Was that their first experience at having to express sympathy? I still think about things like that and I just add it to the list of more things for me to never know.
I was going to have to figure it all out for myself that day with my crayons. This was the first time I stared at a blank piece of paper and felt both confused and determined to put something on it. Mrs. English did not offer up any alternatives for those of us who may not have fathers, or who may not know where their fathers were, or who may be wanting to write something other than “Happy Father’s Day” like “Please stop hitting us when we make mistakes” or “I wish you could hear me when I talk to you” or “Please stop drinking so much.” The kids in those situations were also going to have to figure it out for themselves. We did not know each other back then, but eventually as adults we were able to spot each other. Most of us really don’t know what is going on in someone else’s world. When you “become an adult” while you are still a child, life hands you many insights, and suddenly you are filled with secrets you think no one else will understand. As a child, your home and your family is your whole world. You don’t know what all those “other” worlds look like. Then when we are old enough and brave enough we begin speaking honestly about how we grew up and what went on in our own little worlds of alcoholic parents, divorces, physical abuse, and death. It was always there but we kept it to ourselves either because we were embarrassed or we simply did not have the tools to really understand and express what was happening. As an adult I now realize all those kids with bad behavior were simply manifesting some toxic experience in their family. It always has to come out some how. As children we cannot control how it is going to come out, but I think age and wisdom can provide the proper pathways to help us navigate through the rough passages. The goal is to experience and release it all in the least damaging way possible. Hopefully we learn coping skills we can transfer to other areas of our lives. Because our fate is not determined by what happens to us as much as it is by how we cope with it all.
On Father’s Day of June 1970 I quietly sat at my desk and made the most beautiful and meaningful Father’s Day Card of my little life and it was addressed to My Mother. It was the beginning of many years when I would give my Mother a card on Father’s day. After all, she was doing both jobs after my dad died, hers and his. So Mom, Happy Father’s Day. I love you.
Benita
****************************
Now what? Mother’s Day is rapidly approaching, and while I am a mother, I am no longer a daughter. I am half of who I was. I know I should not let some manufactured holiday effect me, but it will. I want to find joy in my children but my sadness over losing my mother is inescapable. I feel guilty because I think it will make my children think they are not enough to make me happy on Mother’s Day. And I know that I need to make that my goal: One day, let the love of my children consume me and finally submerge the sadness into its’ rightful place, deep down in the lower chamber of my heart. That is what my mother did after losing her sister, her husband and her own mother in less than a 4 year span. Where did she find the strength?
My mother found her way back to joy and love. She was complicated and there were times of terrible stress, but looking back there was a lot of laughter, traveling, and slumber parties (for me, not her). That is how I will have to honor her eventually. By making sure my kids feel I put their joy and happiness ahead of my confusion and sorrow I will be teaching them the lesson I learned from Becky, my mother. But I am not ready just yet. What will I write this year on Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day? I don’t know, but I only have a few days left to figure it out. I only wish Father’s Day came first, but then again, in my case, it never really mattered.
*******************
I remember the first father’s day without my father. It was June 1970. It was towards the end of 4th Grade. We were still in school back then well towards the end of June. I only wish my children spent as much time in School now as we did back then. We would go until the third week in June, and started again the day after Labor Day. We did not have “Institute Days”, “Half Days,” or “Teachers are just sick of teaching so keep all your kids at Home Today Days”. If we wanted to stay home for a personal reason such as a religious Holiday, an illness, or a death in the family, a note was required. It was more like a Vacation Day taken from a full time job if you were lucky enough to have a job that gave you Vacation Days. I have no idea if my father’s factory job at Zenith offered him Vacation Days, but I cannot imagine it did. I bet he had a time card and would have to punch in, but I will never know.
My father died in March of 1970 in a car accident. Decades later when a co-worker of mine lost her father she came to my cubicle seeking a soul mate, someone who could “feel her pain” and understand what she was going through. Soon, most of the girls from the office joined us. We were a close knit group of young women working long hours for pennies at a non-profit agency. We had all gone to the wake for “Jane’s” (pseudonym) dad the day before. Her father died of some disease. Jane asked me how my dad died and I said “in a car accident.” Then in all her innocent overwhelmed state she asked me “Was it a bad accident?” I paused for a while and then in my polished dark humor which one can only develop if their childhood has seen a trauma or two, I replied: “Well, he did die. How bad did you want it to get? The guy had the nerve to wreck the car too!” I started laughing at my own joke and soon everyone who had gathered in my cubicle was hysterically laughing including the girl who had just buried her own father. It was probably my comedic delivery with the exaggerated waving hands and escalating voice that drew the laughter, but no matter, it still provided a much needed emotional release.
I learned at a young age to use humor as a way to cope with answering awkward questions. I have my father to thank for that. But back in 1970 I was a 9 year old child faced for the first time with the dilemma of getting out of an uncomfortable situation. Mrs. English, my 4th Grade teacher stood at the front of the class and said that the day’s Art Lesson would be to make a Father’s Day card. She passed out the blue construction paper and told us to get our crayons out. We sat in rows of wooden desks nailed to the hard wood floors along with our chairs. None of the furniture moved so if a kid was overweight he/she would have had a hard time “squeezing” in between the desk and the chair attached to it. Everyone else in the class would notice. This was one major incentive not to stick out by being overweight when I was growing up.
The first person in each row was given a small stack of the construction paper and told to take one and pass the rest back. I got my piece of paper and passed the remaining pieces behind me while trying not to turn around much so none of the other children would see my frightened eyes. I did not know what to do. Everyone in the class had a father except me. Or at least that is what I thought. I can never know for sure I guess. But I know everyone else knew I did not have a father. They knew when I did not come to school for an entire week that previous March. They even had an Art Lesson where they made Condolence Cards for me which one student and her mother brought to our apartment while we were sitting shiva. I will be 49 this July and I still have the box of those little hand made condolence cards from my 4th grade classmates. Was that their first experience at having to express sympathy? I still think about things like that and I just add it to the list of more things for me to never know.
I was going to have to figure it all out for myself that day with my crayons. This was the first time I stared at a blank piece of paper and felt both confused and determined to put something on it. Mrs. English did not offer up any alternatives for those of us who may not have fathers, or who may not know where their fathers were, or who may be wanting to write something other than “Happy Father’s Day” like “Please stop hitting us when we make mistakes” or “I wish you could hear me when I talk to you” or “Please stop drinking so much.” The kids in those situations were also going to have to figure it out for themselves. We did not know each other back then, but eventually as adults we were able to spot each other. Most of us really don’t know what is going on in someone else’s world. When you “become an adult” while you are still a child, life hands you many insights, and suddenly you are filled with secrets you think no one else will understand. As a child, your home and your family is your whole world. You don’t know what all those “other” worlds look like. Then when we are old enough and brave enough we begin speaking honestly about how we grew up and what went on in our own little worlds of alcoholic parents, divorces, physical abuse, and death. It was always there but we kept it to ourselves either because we were embarrassed or we simply did not have the tools to really understand and express what was happening. As an adult I now realize all those kids with bad behavior were simply manifesting some toxic experience in their family. It always has to come out some how. As children we cannot control how it is going to come out, but I think age and wisdom can provide the proper pathways to help us navigate through the rough passages. The goal is to experience and release it all in the least damaging way possible. Hopefully we learn coping skills we can transfer to other areas of our lives. Because our fate is not determined by what happens to us as much as it is by how we cope with it all.
On Father’s Day of June 1970 I quietly sat at my desk and made the most beautiful and meaningful Father’s Day Card of my little life and it was addressed to My Mother. It was the beginning of many years when I would give my Mother a card on Father’s day. After all, she was doing both jobs after my dad died, hers and his. So Mom, Happy Father’s Day. I love you.
Benita
****************************
Now what? Mother’s Day is rapidly approaching, and while I am a mother, I am no longer a daughter. I am half of who I was. I know I should not let some manufactured holiday effect me, but it will. I want to find joy in my children but my sadness over losing my mother is inescapable. I feel guilty because I think it will make my children think they are not enough to make me happy on Mother’s Day. And I know that I need to make that my goal: One day, let the love of my children consume me and finally submerge the sadness into its’ rightful place, deep down in the lower chamber of my heart. That is what my mother did after losing her sister, her husband and her own mother in less than a 4 year span. Where did she find the strength?
My mother found her way back to joy and love. She was complicated and there were times of terrible stress, but looking back there was a lot of laughter, traveling, and slumber parties (for me, not her). That is how I will have to honor her eventually. By making sure my kids feel I put their joy and happiness ahead of my confusion and sorrow I will be teaching them the lesson I learned from Becky, my mother. But I am not ready just yet. What will I write this year on Mother’s Day, and Father’s Day? I don’t know, but I only have a few days left to figure it out. I only wish Father’s Day came first, but then again, in my case, it never really mattered.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
"Can't Buy Me Love"
The Price You Pay, by Bruce Sprinsteen:
You make up your mind, you choose the chance you take
You ride to where the highway ends and the desert breaks
Out on to an open road you ride until the day
You learn to sleep at night with the price you pay
“Blog”, I like the word. When I say I “have a blog” it makes me think I own some rare priceless artifact. While there are millions out there, each one is so personal and unique. They require a great deal of maintenance. Yesterday someone asked me “What does that mean, when someone says they have a blog? Is it a diary or journal someone puts on the internet for other people to read?” Well, it can be. Or it can be a place where families hook up to see recent photos and learn about what is going on in each others lives. For me it is neither. I am just looking for a way to share my words. I write all the time but I don’t want to be bothered with query letters, researching markets, getting rejected or even worse, revisions. The freedom of being able to write whatever and whenever I want without thinking of trying to sell any of these words most likely means no one other than my husband (and on a rare occasion another friend or relative) is going to read all this. That is the price I pay for my refusal to try and actually earn money as a writer. I don’t want to work. I want to write. I always tell people I plan on handing over all my journals and writings to my kids so they can bring it into therapy when they get older and need to figure out how they ended up needing therapy (It is always the mother’s fault, right?). But the truth is, I love writing. It is that simple.
So the Price I pay is “not getting paid.” If you happen upon this Blog site, and take the time to read more than one entry, thank you, from the bottom of my penniless but endless pen/computer.
You make up your mind, you choose the chance you take
You ride to where the highway ends and the desert breaks
Out on to an open road you ride until the day
You learn to sleep at night with the price you pay
“Blog”, I like the word. When I say I “have a blog” it makes me think I own some rare priceless artifact. While there are millions out there, each one is so personal and unique. They require a great deal of maintenance. Yesterday someone asked me “What does that mean, when someone says they have a blog? Is it a diary or journal someone puts on the internet for other people to read?” Well, it can be. Or it can be a place where families hook up to see recent photos and learn about what is going on in each others lives. For me it is neither. I am just looking for a way to share my words. I write all the time but I don’t want to be bothered with query letters, researching markets, getting rejected or even worse, revisions. The freedom of being able to write whatever and whenever I want without thinking of trying to sell any of these words most likely means no one other than my husband (and on a rare occasion another friend or relative) is going to read all this. That is the price I pay for my refusal to try and actually earn money as a writer. I don’t want to work. I want to write. I always tell people I plan on handing over all my journals and writings to my kids so they can bring it into therapy when they get older and need to figure out how they ended up needing therapy (It is always the mother’s fault, right?). But the truth is, I love writing. It is that simple.
So the Price I pay is “not getting paid.” If you happen upon this Blog site, and take the time to read more than one entry, thank you, from the bottom of my penniless but endless pen/computer.
Present Tense
Past Tense
I was thinking of posting some old material I have written over the years and then I thought in order to make a lot of my pieces work I would need to go Back to put them in Past Tense. Somehow that sounds so weird to me. I have to go back to go back, redundant. But that is my current situation. I wrote so much about my mom and I am not ready to put her or my writings about her in the past tense.
Last night was my first time at Friday Night Services to say Yiskor, a prayer for the recently deceased. Because of some other special celebrations for four young female congregants (my age group) it was a packed house. I am guessing the typical Friday Night Services do not draw such a large crowd. But last night, I was thankful for the distraction and conversation afterwards in the Oneg. Next week, I will probably go home right afterwards. Being in the Temple on a Friday Night helps me keep my mom alive for me. Her passing has not really sunk in yet. Even with the Funeral, the condolence cards, the left over food in the Fridge from the Shiva, the empty time. No. I even resorted to magical thinking as I sat silently beseeching my mother’s eternal soul to bring her back whole to me during the all the chanting. I turned to see if she would walk in ready for Services, the round lacy black head net she always wore secured to her heavily sprayed hair. Walking? My mother stopped walking so long ago. For the last several years she was confined to a wheel chair. Why did I think upon her return, she would be upright once more? Maybe that is all part of the fantasy.
As I prayed for her return I knew I was being ridiculous but I couldn’t help myself. I still prayed. And when my prayers were not answered at least I was able to be around friendly people after the services so I could talk about my mother and try to “feel” her presence in all her absence. I even laughed and joked in the Dining Hall during the Oneg. It seemed a strange thing to do after feeling so sad inside the sanctuary. But I am not ready to let go of my mother and her humor and the bright light she brought to the world with her fun personality. Even when I write about her now, I sometimes find the humor is impossible to suppress. I guess that is one more gift she is continuing to give me in the sea of sorrow I am floating in, an occasional smile and laugh as the waves carry me further and further from her once warm body. So if you happen to be reading things and it seems as if my mother is still alive because I am trapped in the Present Tense of my past writings, don’t be fooled like I was into thinking I could magically make her re-appear. The words floating in the air between my finger tips and your eyes are as invisible and fleeting as my Becky.
I miss her, present tense.
I was thinking of posting some old material I have written over the years and then I thought in order to make a lot of my pieces work I would need to go Back to put them in Past Tense. Somehow that sounds so weird to me. I have to go back to go back, redundant. But that is my current situation. I wrote so much about my mom and I am not ready to put her or my writings about her in the past tense.
Last night was my first time at Friday Night Services to say Yiskor, a prayer for the recently deceased. Because of some other special celebrations for four young female congregants (my age group) it was a packed house. I am guessing the typical Friday Night Services do not draw such a large crowd. But last night, I was thankful for the distraction and conversation afterwards in the Oneg. Next week, I will probably go home right afterwards. Being in the Temple on a Friday Night helps me keep my mom alive for me. Her passing has not really sunk in yet. Even with the Funeral, the condolence cards, the left over food in the Fridge from the Shiva, the empty time. No. I even resorted to magical thinking as I sat silently beseeching my mother’s eternal soul to bring her back whole to me during the all the chanting. I turned to see if she would walk in ready for Services, the round lacy black head net she always wore secured to her heavily sprayed hair. Walking? My mother stopped walking so long ago. For the last several years she was confined to a wheel chair. Why did I think upon her return, she would be upright once more? Maybe that is all part of the fantasy.
As I prayed for her return I knew I was being ridiculous but I couldn’t help myself. I still prayed. And when my prayers were not answered at least I was able to be around friendly people after the services so I could talk about my mother and try to “feel” her presence in all her absence. I even laughed and joked in the Dining Hall during the Oneg. It seemed a strange thing to do after feeling so sad inside the sanctuary. But I am not ready to let go of my mother and her humor and the bright light she brought to the world with her fun personality. Even when I write about her now, I sometimes find the humor is impossible to suppress. I guess that is one more gift she is continuing to give me in the sea of sorrow I am floating in, an occasional smile and laugh as the waves carry me further and further from her once warm body. So if you happen to be reading things and it seems as if my mother is still alive because I am trapped in the Present Tense of my past writings, don’t be fooled like I was into thinking I could magically make her re-appear. The words floating in the air between my finger tips and your eyes are as invisible and fleeting as my Becky.
I miss her, present tense.
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