How time rushes slowly past

It’s been one year since Mom passed away. Such a jumble of thoughts and feelings  passing through me this week.

Mom’s death last September (10th) opened up a rift in the family (okay, my actions lit the fuse) and it’s been hard to think of Mom without getting lost in those attached issues.

Too many times I felt like family was doing a whirling dervish in my head.

Working through the grief, the anger, the emptiness took so much longer than I thought it would. Funny, my word for the year (chosen last year) was accept and that’s been my struggle this past year. I had to accept that what had passed was now in the past.

As was is as is and not everything in life can be tied up in a nice tidy package with a sleek bow on top. Sometimes the messier things get, the stronger the lessons are.

And we should all know by now that the best lessons are often the ickiest! And I’m here to say too true by a million. . .

 Maffeo Sutten Park just be dusk (1)

I don’t think I have shared this before. One of life’s unexpected yet juicy moments and not really one you can share; at least not right away. Sometime things need to be held close to the heart for a while.

A couple of days ago I was down at the city’s inner harbor park, people watching and sketching when I realized I was sitting right where I had been one year ago.

I’d just finished dealing with the details of Mom’s cremation and had  walked down from the funeral home. I was sitting there plugged with grief and  all around me life was doing  its stuff. I remember being full of strangeness—as if I’d stepped outside of my own life. Totally surreal.  People were laughing and yakking. Kids were yelling and dogs were barking.

And Mom was dead.

So there I was, mindlessly staring at everything, and nothing, when something in my peripheral vision fluttered past. Something small and light-colored. I thought something had blown out of a tree nearby. Or maybe it was a butterfly. It landed beside me on the bench.

That was the moment surreal took a gobsmack between the eyes.

I was staring at Mom’s social insurance card on the bench — the same card I’d tucked inside the folder at the funeral home (along with her birth certificate and all their legal documents). I stuck that folder inside a manila envelope which went into my backpack—the same closed backpack sitting between myself and Mom’s card. . .

So how did Mom’s card end up fluttering onto the bench?

I know what I believe—it was a heart nudge. I felt it then and I’m still feeling it now.

Ciao for now Mom.

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