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The very last voicemail I have saved with my mother's voice is from January. In it, her voice is kind, but mildly exasperated.
"Tracy, we are just fine." Emphasis on fine, with a hint of annoyance that I have called her several days in a row to check in. I had good reason, as someone had taken advantage of her kindness, and her bank account, in an online scam that lasted for days. This just mere weeks after her own father's death.
Her voice changes tone, right back to sweetness. "We love you, okay? Don't worry about us so much. Call me if you need me. Bye."
I know she would tell me not to worry. I know she would tell me not to cry so much. I know she would hug me, hold me, maybe scold me in that same gentle way to tell me to keep moving forward. I know she would tell me that she would never want me to hurt in this way.
And yet, I do. I have mentally kicked myself a hundred times a day for not having more voicemails, for not having more photos, more videos.
I had the first dream about her the other night. In the first half she is gone, and yet, as dreams do, later she is there, alive, standing in her kitchen with her hair in a ponytail, saying something to me. When I wake up, I try to recall what was said, hoping there is some message hidden in the dreamscape that will help me feel better. I can't recall, and so I end up breaking into tears.
I want, so desperately, to feel that comfort of her presence. I sometimes wonder if I am listening carefully enough. Right now I still feel empty, raw. I have stood in front of her grave and talked to her - one minute sharing how everyone is coping; one minute letting her know how grateful I am for all that she gave to us; the next falling back on an apology, the fear and guilt that linger from the decisions we had to make, the questions that we couldn't answer, the things we couldn't know, in those last horrid few days.
I had expected that I would help take care of her, and dad, for at least another twenty years. It's hard not to run outdoors and scream out loud and shake my fists and kick at the sky.
I try to think of her patience, her calm, her assurances to "don't worry". My mother - my mother could rival Mother Theresa in levels of patience. I wish I had half the ability to conjure up that level of calm. Perhaps if I did, it wouldn't feel as if everything was spinning so wildly. My mom - even when annoyed, was never mean. And she was always positive. She always helped to push my anxiety away. She looked for the best in people, and she gave her best to people, and I think that is probably one of the greatest gifts she shared with me. I am trying, as I walk this walk, to follow in those footsteps. To give and accept kindnesses. To loved and be loved. To take care of others. To hold onto hope. It's hard - so unbearably hard, and yet I have her voice right there to remind me.
"We love you, okay? Don't worry about us so much."
"Tracy, we are just fine." Emphasis on fine, with a hint of annoyance that I have called her several days in a row to check in. I had good reason, as someone had taken advantage of her kindness, and her bank account, in an online scam that lasted for days. This just mere weeks after her own father's death.
Her voice changes tone, right back to sweetness. "We love you, okay? Don't worry about us so much. Call me if you need me. Bye."
I know she would tell me not to worry. I know she would tell me not to cry so much. I know she would hug me, hold me, maybe scold me in that same gentle way to tell me to keep moving forward. I know she would tell me that she would never want me to hurt in this way.
And yet, I do. I have mentally kicked myself a hundred times a day for not having more voicemails, for not having more photos, more videos.
I had the first dream about her the other night. In the first half she is gone, and yet, as dreams do, later she is there, alive, standing in her kitchen with her hair in a ponytail, saying something to me. When I wake up, I try to recall what was said, hoping there is some message hidden in the dreamscape that will help me feel better. I can't recall, and so I end up breaking into tears.
I want, so desperately, to feel that comfort of her presence. I sometimes wonder if I am listening carefully enough. Right now I still feel empty, raw. I have stood in front of her grave and talked to her - one minute sharing how everyone is coping; one minute letting her know how grateful I am for all that she gave to us; the next falling back on an apology, the fear and guilt that linger from the decisions we had to make, the questions that we couldn't answer, the things we couldn't know, in those last horrid few days.
I had expected that I would help take care of her, and dad, for at least another twenty years. It's hard not to run outdoors and scream out loud and shake my fists and kick at the sky.
I try to think of her patience, her calm, her assurances to "don't worry". My mother - my mother could rival Mother Theresa in levels of patience. I wish I had half the ability to conjure up that level of calm. Perhaps if I did, it wouldn't feel as if everything was spinning so wildly. My mom - even when annoyed, was never mean. And she was always positive. She always helped to push my anxiety away. She looked for the best in people, and she gave her best to people, and I think that is probably one of the greatest gifts she shared with me. I am trying, as I walk this walk, to follow in those footsteps. To give and accept kindnesses. To loved and be loved. To take care of others. To hold onto hope. It's hard - so unbearably hard, and yet I have her voice right there to remind me.
"We love you, okay? Don't worry about us so much."
