This was our second Christmas without
my mother.
We set a place for her near our tree, her wedding picture alongside a lit candle, before we began our Christmas Eve. It has been 16 months since she passed away, and moments
of her still sneak into my day. It's a surprise where these snatches of memory come from—I can't trace what coaxes these thoughts out, because I will be in the middle of something unrelated to anything my mother did, like
washing out my son's lunch box, and then I'm suddenly standing, remembering how she never liked driving in icy weather.
Sixteen months, and I don't miss her any less, and I don't miss
her any more, than that first holiday without her.
People ask me if things are easier for me this year. I know, or at least I hope, that they mean to soothe me when they promise, “You'll get over it.” My hope is that I never get over it. I don't want to not notice that she's
gone from my life. I don't have
as one of my goals, to get “over” losing her.
There is a fear of sadness, I can feel it from others. An uncomfortable vibe that reflects fromthem, to me. I'm sure, seeing me, lips trembling, voice cracking, eyes tearing, it can't be easy to witness. But there is a beauty in sitting, giving attention to someone when they tell of how they love and miss, dream of and wish for, that person that is now gone and forever absent from their life. Right there,
that moment when I listen to them, I can picture the place in their heart.
In the beginning, my children were afraid of sadness, too. They would get nervous and interrupt when I'd begin to talk about my mother, asking for reassurance, "You're not going to cry, are you?" I would answer honestly, "I just might." Then, I'd add, "but it's important that you let me finish. It's all right if I cry. Don't let it scare you."
I began a lot of stories this holiday week with the words, "My mother used to..." My children listened, no one stopping me with the worried question, will you cry? They know, I love telling stories
about her, the memories of the life we shared together. If I break into tears, they're no longer fearful. They let my emotions run their course, slowly then peaking, then ebbing away. Happy that I had ears to hear her name. I don't always cry, more often than not, I
do tell a story with my voice even and unwavering.
If tears come to my eyes when I talk about my mother, it's not always because of grief. There is pride, too, in being her daughter. If
a tear or two drops, it's from the love for her that overwhelms me. You think you feel love for someone when they're breathing next to you. There is no way I can prepare anyone for the heart explosion of what you feel at their loss.
Just as there is more than one kind of tear, there is more than one way to celebrate
the holidays. The commercials on TV and radio show us what they ideally are: full dining rooms gathered with family and everyone
home. But the mourners celebrate too. With achingly less volume, and more quiet, with less words from our mouths, but hours of replayed conversations once had. We are
loving, remembering, and lingering on memories of the ones we will love forever.
If you know us, the mourners, ask us how we're doing. Give us the chance to say their name, to let who they are fall off our tongues and float into the universe.
Don't be scared to let us speak.
Don't hush our tears, or cut our words short.
As uncomfortable as raw emotion is to see, be our friend. Take our hand, and don't break eye contact, let us tell you the words we carry.
Don't be scared to let us speak.
Don't hush our tears, or cut our words short.
As uncomfortable as raw emotion is to see, be our friend. Take our hand, and don't break eye contact, let us tell you the words we carry.
Grief is a gift. I'll never be over not
having my mother with me and I don't want to be.
Allow us to give
our sorrow, words. It helps to keep our hearts from breaking.
“Give sorrow words; the grief that
does not speak knits up the over wrought heart and bids it break.”
-William Shakespeare
* * *
It's an amazing gift: teaching your children not to fear tears and an open expression of grief, to show them that feeling the way you feel is important, to model for them what it is to listen to your own heart. Most people spend a lifetime trying to touch those lessons.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Jocelyn. Grief is a wonderful life affirming event that you can't have without love. We loved, we grieve. People are scared of it, and it's necessary for me, at least, to have these moments to talk about what my mother was like. Thank you for reading.
DeleteWe are without my mom for a second Christmas as well. I can relate to this entire post. It's funny how the memories just come out of nowhere as well as the tears. My kids have gotten more comfortable over time sharing their own memories of their grandma and not worrying as much how it will affect me. I'm so glad for that. Anyway, I'm a new follower and just had to chime in to say I know how you feel. Happy Holidays!
ReplyDeleteWhat a wonderful point to add, Kelly. Yes, people are afraid to say their name, bring them up. We'd love nothing more than to hear you share a story, one we may not know about. So, please, speak their name. Thank you so much for commenting.
DeleteThank you. Your delicate touching on the fear of pain or grief is so true. I have come to cherish the tremors of pain and memory that come unbidden. Often it's the impulse to dial my grandfather's number as I used to. I would call him to describe a beautiful sky over my head or to weep into the receiver over something, anything. I still say is number 909 626 6431, like a prayer. I love having the line stay open. Love to you on this day and each one that comes after.
ReplyDeleteTHank you, Amanda. Isn't it just so true? The fear of grieving. How else do we honor and process monumental loss, if not to remember? And to feel it deep down, where we carry them with us. It is so wonderful to know you, Amanda.
DeleteMy mother's death broke me.
ReplyDeleteHow did I say the number one reason that I left NY was because people thought it unseemly to grieve a person who died right after 9/11? That makes the regular people--bank workers who were covered in American flag pins but so nasty to me--seem horrible when there's a whole myth about how great every New Yorker was
Blogging saved me. It's that simple. It let me talk about her and frame and reframe her life and death to people who actually cared.
Many of my friends realized how unfeeling they had been and have worked hard to make up for how callous they were. I was never the needy friend. I realized even then how difficult that was for people who had always been needy on me
My mother didn't believe in god. I was tormented that people wouldn't get into heaven if they didn't--that feeling and a million others would come and go.
You'll always grieve Alexandra. But there will come a time when the good memories outweigh the grief. When you tear up just a little.
But I'm glad you're teaching your children to grieve--and to allow others to grieve. You can only grieve when you can love. Some never understand that. Love your fourth to last paragraph especially.
Thank you for such a beautiful comment, Pia. Bloggng has saved me, too. I work through my life, when I post my words here.
DeleteOh, how I love this. I ask, and want to be asked, "What do you miss the most?" or "What's your favorite memory?" Mourners need so much to share those memories. And they're so great to hear, tears or no tears.
ReplyDeleteI can't wait to hear more stories about your mom. I'm sorry for your loss.
Yes , ask me, ask me to remember. So many times, I do get scared. Will I not be able to hear the sound of her voice in my mind anymore? I still am lucky, I hear it in my dreams, and it sounds so real. Thank you, friend.
DeleteAs my mother said to me just a few days ago, "We celebrate Christmas with more ghosts than people now." When I was young, I thought that there was such a thing as "getting over it." I thought that missing loved ones gone would lessen with time. As I'm aging, I'm finding that the missing is more acute. And it's not just the ones who've died. I miss the younger people my remaining family once were. I miss the family we once were, when my grandparents' generation was still alive. The holidays remind me, again and again, that change is the only constant. I try to use the grief over what's gone to help me fully experience and appreciate what's in front of me right now--which I know I will someday grieve the loss of, too. It is such a funny, tricky, hard thing--to hold both celebration and mourning in my hands at the same time. Yet, I think that's what all holidays will be from now on. Sending love to you, Alexandra.
ReplyDeleteIsn't that the truth? I lost my father when I was 6 years old. I still miss him. I still feel a lump in my throat when I think how now he'd be my old man, my sweet old man that I"d push in a wheelchair. I grieve him, but that makes him matter. He had space in my life, my father. xo
DeleteLove that grief is a gift. Lost my dad when I was 19. As you know, lost another close person 11 years ago. I never understood that "you will or you need to get over it" What is IT? And like you, I don't want to. I LOVE my memories and I don't want to be without them. No, I don't grief in the same way, of course not, but if grief is remembering, loving and tearing up at times, I'll take it.
ReplyDeleteCan't have the grief without the love. I tell my children, it's ok if you feel sad, that's the love in your heart, the space they had in your life. That's them you feel. So much love to you, my friend. xo
DeleteI lost my mother 13 years ago, and every Christmas, I can feel her nearby...when I try to bake (and not burn) cookies, when I pull out cherished decorations from my childhood, when I'm sitting quietly on Christmas Eve. I want to talk to her, hug her and tell her what my life is like now....yet at the same time, I feel she knows, and she is there. "get over it"? what exactly do people think the "it" is? I don't want to get over the love or the tears! They're want make our hearts stronger. Thank you for your beautiful words.
ReplyDeleteThank you for sharing a memory of your mother with me. Until someone loses a parent, it's had to understand the depth of grief. There are no words for the open space that exists where they once were. Thank you, again, for helping me to feel her through your treasured memories.
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