Some mornings I wake to a golden, slanted light filtered through dense fog. It softens outlines, blurs the houses on my street, and mutes the noises of my neighborhood.
This is when I feel my mother’s presence. I release my tears to the foggy air.
I’ve learned some new things about grieving. For example, sudden attacks of heartache are called “grief bubbles.” When I hear that term, I think of myself as a kid, ignoring my mother who is telling me that the bubble I’m blowing will pop and cover my face in sticky goo. It does indeed pop, and I spend the next thirty minutes scrubbing pink gum off my cheeks, pulling it out of my eyelashes, and combing it from my hair.
I see my mother as a young woman, handing me a washcloth to get the last bits of gum from my face. I see her short, dark hair and smell her 4711 cologne.
Even though I’m grieving, I can’t seem to stop snacking. The Germans have a word for it: “Kummerspeck,” which translates to “grief bacon,” or the tendency some of us have to indulge in emotional over-eating. Maybe it’s the comfort of food, or maybe it’s because grieving is a strenuous activity. It changes the way the world looks. It hits you hard and then abandons you for days. It is the most unpleasant of marathons.
It’s safe to say that people who grieve might need a few extra calories.
Along with my urge to snack, my brain searches for something to latch on to. On the good days, I fret about the bad days. On the bad days, I fear that there won’t be any good days. The mental energy I employed in worrying about my mother as she declined over the past few months is still active, even though it’s no longer needed. I try to use it up by writing, exercising, reading, spending time with family and friends. But it’s always there, bouncing aimlessly inside my head like a loose wheel on the highway.
It rained the day I went to the mortuary to claim my mother’s ashes. The air was cool and humid. As I drove back towards town, I caught sight of a double rainbow stretching across the sky. I saw rainbow after rainbow: small ones, half-bows, and huge shining arcs. It started to seem a little ridiculous, until my son, sitting in the passenger seat, said, “Do you think Grandma is saying hello?”
Yes, I said. I think she is.
Hugs to you.