The softer side of grief and memory

My dear, precious Mother -- it's been 11 years since we lost you. We get through the days without your soft touch, without your preternaturally beautiful emerald eyes, without your endless reserves of loving patience for your hardheaded "babies." 

You'd be so proud of your "little grandboy." After college, he came home for a bit, bounced around trying to find his path, and finally returned to his beloved Arizona mountains. He's found his love (who reminds us of you in so many ways) -- she's a loving, sweet-hearted girl who's fierce and strong, but also soft and endlessly kind. She really is the daughter I never knew I needed. They are charting their own path, learning every day, and making the life they want. We speak several times a week and see each other when we can.

Our girl graduated from AU and stayed in DC, then went on to get a master's degree in some arcane sub-discipline of defense studies. She's married and living in Stuttgart now. They'll be there for several years, then possibly back stateside. 

The puppy who sat on your lap is an old-lady dog now, but still loves her early-evening zoomies around the back yard. She's spoiled rotten, as this family's dogs all seem to be, but we love our Margaret. And Jennifer has settled into her elder years; you wouldn't believe what a dignified lady our psycho calico kitten has become! Jennifer and I still watch M*A*S*H* reruns in my room, snuggled under that navy-blue snowman blanket you gave me. We feel you there with us, chuckling at Hawkeye and smirking at my crush on Winchester.

Your house, always a haven of warmth and security, is now home to a lovely young family with an energetic toddler. They kept your grapefruit tree (it's enormous now!) and added papaya trees and dragonfruit plants and all kinds of things. I love knowing that someone else is making as loving a nest as you and Daddy did there, and I love hearing the sounds of a happy family from my kitchen.

For years after your funeral, I couldn't get serious about returning to St. Wilfrid's. It just hurt too much. And then there were . . . other things . . . that kept me away. But the warmth and persistence of some of our friends influenced me to go back, and now when I "see you" there, it's reassuring rather than heartbreaking. 

Every day I miss you and find myself wishing I could call and chat (maybe that's what this is?) I miss the "good night" phone calls, I miss buzzing around town with you on Saturdays, I miss giving you grief about your primping. I miss hearing the kitchen door open and knowing you'll soon drop everything and let loose with a loud string of "damnits." (By the way, thanks for teaching my son to swear. Like the rest of us, he can hold his own in the finest waterfront saloons, and like you, I feign shock and horror when I hear it. Is it in the DNA? Law of unintended consequences?) I miss your precision and willingness to decorate my Christmas tree. I miss making that whole damned bird dinner for you every Thanksgiving (although we still do pilgrim casserole). I miss laughing on Christmas Eve when you're still wrapping 11 zillion presents at 9:30 p.m. I miss hiding your keys in my freezer and telling you I have no idea where they are. These things are not inconsequential; they were the fabric of our everyday lives for so long. Losing you has taught me that you don't get past grief; you just learn to live with it. The raggedy edges soften, color creeps back into the world, lightheartedness returns, focus shifts. But you're always there and I always miss you

Loving friends continue to get me through painful days. "Little Jannie" stayed with me all day on the day you died; without her I'd have been a worse floundering mess than I was. Mary, of course, sweet, loyal Mary, was by my side every step of the way. And our Dan, dear precious Daniel, quietly took charge when I couldn't cope for another minute. Your baby girl and little grandboy are in good hands, Mother. 

We know you are living in everlasting light, endless peace and joy, and an eternal lack of pain and unwelcome silence. We know you are fully healed and whole (side note: Mother, I REALLY hope there are no post-stroke rehabs in heaven -- you just go right ahead and be as unyieldingly left-handed as you want, damnit!) 

Until we meet again, we love you, Mother/ Gra'Mommy/Wolfie/Grandma Duch