This is hard y’all. Oh, right, explanations. Well, if you’ve been following along on Facebook or the Twitters then you already know, but for the two of you who haven’t…
My Mother is Dead. Or to quote Charles Dickens, “as dead as a door-nail.”
Yes, I know, stark, blunt, to the point, but that’s how I am. That’s how I roll. And actually, you may or may not be surprised to learn that a variation of those exact words were the text message I sent my husband last Thursday after I got that call. The call I never expected to get last Thursday. The call telling me that my Mother was dead. The call telling me that another part of my life had ended. That a part of me had died as well. And I guess I keep saying it like that in order to convince myself that it’s true. Because apparently it is. Since, you know, we did have a funeral and there’s enough food in this house right now to feed two armies. Supplied by a veritable Army of Church Ladies who showed up every day, for five days, just like clockwork, to take care of us as we flailed about, confused, trying to make sense of a world that had almost instantaneously turned upside down.
And, BTW, I’d like to pause for a moment and apologize to the Chicken survivors of middle Georgia who are all now just as deep in mourning as we are today. We’re sorry, it’s not personal, it’s just dinner. Oh, and please pass along our condolences to the pigs. Same thing. And, if you’re wondering, I answered the question of “Which came first” this weekend. For all of you who’ve been wondering, the Chicken and the Egg travel together and they show up at the same time, with one riding in a KFC bucket and the other sitting on a lovely heirloom Deviled Egg Tray. Yeah. There is no first. Tell everyone, that particular question is now answered, and BTW you’re welcome.
But, back to the subject, my Mother is Dead. Still. And apparently that means forever. Which, just so we’re clear, is a very long time, if the experts in that subject matter are to be believed. But as I sit here at her Dining Room table typing this doggerel I see so much of her around me. So very much. Like, pretty much everything. The Spring floral centerpiece she arranged before she left to come visit us two weeks ago. Her cat- Dolly – who is wandering around here, pretty much lost. And my Bonus Dad – Jimmy – who is so terribly heartbroken. This is his second time in the Widower Club. I know, twice? Seriously? Isn’t there some sort of Get Out of Death Free card after that happens to you once? Apparently not, but let’s be clear here, there should be. But you know, we’re all suffering, not just him. We’re all lost. And, despite all the rituals, I still keep half-expecting her to walk in, reaching for her first cup of Coffee, or singing “Wake up, Wake up Old Sleepy Head” like she did so annoyingly when I was growing up.
Yes, she did that, every morning, I know, WTF? I hated her for that back then. Now I’d pay any amount of money to hear it again. Really. Even that. I’d want that back too. But it seems that my request to have her back, annoying habits and all, is not being honored in this particular arena. It seems there are other, more powerful votes, that are preventing that from happening. Something about it being “her time”, and “God’s Plan”. And let me just state for the record that this is the second time where God and I have some serious disagreements regarding that Plan. Although I’m sure he’s not the least bit worried about that. But that plan? Yeah, to quote Gaiman & Pratchett, it’s pretty much “inscrutable”, and for the record, it’s certainly not something he ran past me. Of course, when it comes to that plan, it’s obvious that he didn’t check with any of us, now did he? After all, we aren’t all Lottery Winners, and you know that’s what the thing would look like if we all had gotten an opportunity to vote.
Yeah, don’t deny it. You’d put that in there. Along with everlasting life. And the ability to eat everything and gain no weight. That would be a great addition too. Especially because of that damned Carrot Cake that was delivered yesterday evening. Evil cake! Hate that cake. And that gooey, delicious, yumminess. Yeah, we’ve had an up-close meeting. It went pretty well, for me, not so much for the cake.
But anyway, it’s official apparently, with certificates and all, that my Mother is gone. And there’s a hole inside of me that I can’t seem to fill right now. An emptiness. An aloneness that nobody else will ever be able to replace. And I am now half-orphaned. Mother-less. And that just seems to be ridiculous. Absurd. Because she was so alive, just a week ago. Literally. She kissed me goodbye on my backsteps last Monday morning, smiling and still laughing at me for worrying about her, and she texted me that night to tell me she was home and she loved me. And then she died. And now she’s gone.
My Mother is Dead.
And I am not.
My Mother is not.
But I am.