Gone

When my mother was alive, I would have passing thoughts of her
less frequently than I would like to admit.
She had a huge energy, always making friends with strangers,
more than she seemed willing to know and understand me.
So she had to inject her way into my life,
calling, writing, emailing,
sending me every forwarded prayer
and "save the troops" message she would get.

There were years I barely acknowledged her,
and a stretch of months when we did not speak at all.
Yet, she persisted and stayed,
sending out her one way rope,
over and over again.

I loved many things my mother did:
writing SCR+BHR in the new cement,
reaching for my father's hand when they crossed the street,
putting fresh cut flowers by the bedside whenever I would visit,
the way she would cry at Christmas,
loving whatever gift I would give her.

But I did not really fall in love with my mom -- with her--
until she could no longer talk.
Her big voice stilled by a stroke,
the only way she had to communicate was in whispers
and movements with her dark, clear eyes.

She worked so hard, doing everything the doctors asked.
She lifted and pinched, she pointed her fingers
and raised her feet, trying to twirl and flex her toes.
She struggled to stand once, her heartrate bouncing and churning.
She amazed me, a hero to all heroes. A hero to me.
Never once crying, complaining, or asking why.

It was a soft time, a thin time,
and every crumb of anger and need was wiped away.
Like so many have said, the cliche warning is true.
When there was no time left to love, all I felt was love.

I remember holding her hand as she was dying,
talking to her, thanking her, wishing her a safe passage.
I apologized, I laughed, I told stories to her stone still face,
so honored to be the one there with her.
I remember the slight shift in the room,
blue air swimming in, and the last few breaths.
Then the silence, the color draining from her cheeks,
her warm hand heavy, heavier than anything I had ever held.

But what I remember most was the night
two weeks before, when she shooed me away to sleep,
before I would take the plane home for a week.
We thought it would a long process, her dying,
and my brother and I would take shifts.
It was late, near midnight, and mom,
turned to me, whispering, "Go, now, the plane is early."

I nodded, kissed her face, her forehead,
and looked at her as deep in as I could get.
"I love you, mom. I love you."
She wrinkled a smile, and said "I know."
And then, one tear, slow and definite,
rolled down her left cheek.
One small drop that had it all:
I birthed you, I bear you, I hold you still,
I wish you well, I see you now,
I forgive everything you could never say or do,
I forgive me every way in which I hurt you,
I will be with you beyond this world, beyond time.
One tear saying I loved you, I love you.
One tear promising I will love you your whole life long,
even when I am gone.