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Wednesday, August 20, 2014

Mama, is that you?


Yesterday, 11:02 AM

On my birthday five weeks after my mother's death, I spent the entire day looking for a sign, any sign, that she was somehow still with me. A moth. A few snowflakes. A sunbeam. Something.

In life, my mother marked my birthday with an early morning call filled with praises for being the cutest newborn ever. I just knew my vivacious, capable mother would find a way to note her presence on this day, because the alternative, that she was really gone, was unthinkable.

I was so highly suggestive that anything really would have worked to reassure me. As the day wore on a growing desperation crept in. In the morning I was hoping for a cardinal, but by the end of the day I would have taken a common crow.

And yet inexplicably that day of all days I saw no birds, no snowflakes, no breeze I could have taken for a caress, nothing.

When my husband came home at six o'clock I went to bed, heartbroken and finally convinced of the finality of her death.

I was thinking about that day yesterday at Goodwill, as I shopped for supplies for a youth group activity. I giggled and thought what a shame that I am no longer in that incredibly suggestive frame of mind, because then I could take the decorative plates as Messages From The Great Beyond.


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