Monday, May 12, 2014
I look in the mirror and see the face of a girl. When did I get here? To this place called middle age? I still see the grade schooler who loved art more than math. I see the college girl falling in with the wrong guy. All those fine lines...Maybe my face changed when Dad died.
I see a woman becoming a mother and those lines softened. My heart expanded and shifted to include you. To beat for you. I see the face in the mirror of a woman still needing her mother. More fine lines from losing you.
I see me, but I see you. Our reflections connecting, merging into one. You are me. I am you.
A prayer card handed out before you view the body. "We little knew that morning, God was going to call your name." Did you hear God's voice? Who is God?
When I look in the mirror is it God I see? I am him. He is me.
Years upon years of church, Sunday school, bible school, Junior choir, church trips and a church wedding to marry an agnostic...
All these years later what do I believe? Generations before me rise up to say "I am the way, and the truth, and the life; no one comes to the Father but through Me." (John 14:6)
Bit and pieces of memorized verses, hymns and Luther's catechism wander through my head.
My grandmother's white gloves and a pocketbook with a gold snap closure on top...inside: lipstick, tissues and gum to keep us still throughout the service.
I walk through the cemetery, looking for the tree to remind me...counting over graves to the left, or is to the right? Finding a flat grave marker with my family name on it. I see your name, your husband's name. My son's name now. A strong name. My son named after a man I never knew. Did he hear God's voice too?
I keep walking through the cemetery. Peace and calm fill me. I am content. You see death. I see love. Lives lived and all these people loved. You see missing. I see history. You see tears. I see dedication. Grave site flowers tended to so lovingly.
I walk toward the mausoleum. You aren't there. A box of ashes and a casket. Cool marble stone and gold letters with your names and dates of birth and death. I don't enter. I keep walking.
I see my reflection in a puddle. Who is the woman I see?
Child, daughter, wife, sister, mother, friend....
I am still me.
Complicated and changed...heart broken wide open.
A huge expanse. Can't call it a crack, but rather a chasm.
The ravens fly deep down into it and quickly fly out, hundreds of them at the same time like inky spots spattering over a white page. Their departure leaves a blankness, an open space to refill.
You gave me the foundation.
Damaged along the way I take the caulk gun and press it and press it and press it. I hear it click, click, click.
I fill it. I refill it.
You remind me everyday that you are still my mother and I am still your daughter.