It’s been less than a week since my mother left this earth at the age of 87. It’s new, this kind of grief, at times sharp and fresh, then dull and distant. It’s too early to think of seeking any sort of solace. Solace from what, I ask myself. How will I ever recover? Is recovery even possible?
When my father died, the world went dark. It was as if a star had gone out somewhere, a star whose name I will never know but whose presence I was now deeply aware of. Since my mother died, the ground has seemed unsteady. Seismic waves rise to the surface. I place my hand on the soil and feel hoofbeats. Something approaching. I pull my hand back. I don’t want to know what’s coming.
When my mother died, I wanted to tell her about it. I wanted to share my feelings of loss and abandonment with the person who left me. Instead, I walked around in circles, talking to myself.
I saw my mother a few bours before she died. She was still my mother then, even though I could plainly see that she was dying. Her breath came deep and slow. I touched her arm, which was warm, a little too warm, actually. I placed my hand on her forehead the way she’d done to me countless times when I was a child, checking for a fever. Her skin stretched across her skull in lines.
I saw my mother’s body a few hours after she died. Her wrinkles had vanished. Her olive skin was an unearthly pale green. Again, I placed my palm on her forehead. It was still warm. That broke me, that meager warmth, that diminishing sign of life. I held her hands. I waited for tears, which came briefly and then stopped. I felt an unreasonable anger at the sun, which shone brightly through the blinds hanging in front of the window over her bed. Tactless star, I thought. I wanted clouds, rain, fog, anything but this absurd light.
I have so much left to say to my mother. I walk outside and listen to the birds. I’m waiting for a mystical bird encounter, like the ones people have when a loved one dies. Then it hits me: on October 5, fifteen days before my mother’s death, I saw an enormous bald eagle rise from a tree in rural Western Oregon. Something about the bird, the way it lingered just long enough for me to see its magnificent white head, yellow beak and huge, black-clawed feet, struck me.
I want to believe that bird was a sign, a portent, an omen. I want to believe that my mother is soaring into some new realm, where her pain is gone and her memory is restored.
I wait for signs.
Edith Erica Isabel Pferdekamp Goss
Born on August 19, 1937, in Mexico City, Mexico
Died on October 17, in Springfield, Oregon, USA
Beloved mother, sister, aunt, grandmother, friend.
I’m sorry for your loss, Erica. I know it is not the same, but I do believe that your mother can still hear you. Hugs to you.
Thank you, Mary.
So, sorry, my friend, for your loss and that you have to go through this…
Thank you, Jim.
It’s never easy to lose a parent. The world changes in ways you’d never expect.
There are no words adequate to describe this kind of grief. Our world truly does change. Be kind to yourself and know there is no timeline.
I felt that one hard.
Funny thing about signs. I’m not superstitious. But as I was leaving home – I had to travel for work, much as I hated leaving T. alone waiting for news of Edith – one of the plump silent peaceable native wood pigeons, the kereru, flew overhead. Generally they just sit around. Seeing one on the move, turning itself sleek and urgent, felt like a sign.
I’m sorry. Thank you for the beautiful prose you’ve spun from your loss.
You’ve written a wonderful poetic tribute to your parents, Erica. I lost my 89 year old father last December, and yes, my world went dark, too. Your lovely way of expressing such a loss is so relatable. Thank you.
What a beautiful tribute to your mother. I’m so sorry for your loss.
Thinking of you and holding you in my heart, though we don’t know one another. (Here via the Via Negativa poetry roundup.) Welcome to the two-parents-gone club. It isn’t always this hard.
Such beautiful writing, and an exquisite tribute to your mama. Your love for her weeps through the lines. What struck me most was “When my mother died, I wanted to tell her about it.” Wow.