Jackpot

I have been missing my mom a lot lately, and certain things have been happening, that I will not divulge, that have made me feel the need to defend her and protect her memory. I feel as though she is not being respected, and a simple "nudging" to point that out was quickly shot down by what I feel is denial and desperation. So, I guess I feel the need to uphold her loyal, beautiful spirit and remember what an amazing person she was, even if others are making poor choices that she would not be comfortable with. Because of this, I have wanted to wear her things, and I would especially like something of hers for my wedding. Lately, I have been into wearing leggings with long shirts and sweaters, and I have really wanted to wear a retro, skinny belt, so I ransacked her closet to see if she had any circa-1982-belts hanging around anywhere. She did. Two of them: one brown, one tan...simple and neutral, just like me. Jackpot.

I stood there for a long time just looking at all of her stuff, not touching anything, and examining each piece of clothing and trying to picture her in them. Most of them were things she wore to work everyday, with a few "hang out" pieces like capris and jeans to fit her newly-shaped body, and some really fancy stuff like suits and dresses like the one she wore to my graduation. I quietly remembered her face, her body, her clothes, how she looked in them, special occasions celebrated in them. They looked so sad and forgotten, hanging there without her to care for them or pay attention to them. I felt really sad, and realized what a huge reminder her closet full of forgotten close was that she is really gone, and that she is never coming back.

Out of nowhere, I wanted to hug her so bad my chest hurt. And my shoulders. I started to breath heavy and get a little panicky, and I started to cry softly. Not a sad cry, but a quick, desperate cry. I put both of my arms out and in between her hanging clothes until my hands met. It felt like her. I put my head down near the hangers, and I cried so much, it felt like it was the day she died. I began to sob, so loud and so heavy I actually got lightheaded. I really miss her a lot. I do not understand why we had to be separated like this, and why she had to be so sick and so scared.

That is still the main thing I miss about her: being able to touch her. We were completely inseparable, and I was always touching her somehow. Hugging her or rubbing her back or pinching her cheeks or putting my arm around her. She was such a good sport, letting me mess with her all the time, especially when she was sick, but I knew she secretly loved it. We always sat as close as we could together until we were practically on top of each other. I remember a couple years ago giving her a hug in the line at the grocery store. The woman at the check-out said she wished her daughter hugged her like that, and mom laughed, but not in a way to brag, and said that we acted like that all the time, but that our kind of relationship was rare. The woman told us we were very lucky, which I already knew. I asked her if she wanted a hug jokingly, but she actually said yes and began to walk out from behind the cash register, so I gave her a hug.

I want to hug my mom so bad it feels like sometimes I might actually die.

Her clothes brought back so many memories and so many thoughts of her, happy and well, not sick, just being herself. I was careful not to cry my tears all over her clothes because I know how particular she was about things being clean and fresh. Even though she is not here to wear them, I didn't want to do anything I thought might make her uncomfortable. I do not want her to be uncomfortable for any reason at all, especially now that she is in Heaven and away from me. I won't let her be disrespected or pushed aside. She was my best friend, and I will always remain loyal and stick by her side no matter what.

I am excited to wear her belts. I hope she doesn't mind that I took them.

Glowing embers

The day after my dream about my mom at the cemetery, I went to visit her for the first time in two months. I guess I feel like visiting her at the cemetery is a little false to me, because to me, that's not where she is. Just her ashes. But not her. I walked into the mausoleum, and noticed right away how cold it was in the building. In the middle of the hallway is a stand for family members to put pictures, cards, flowers, things like that. I picked up her picture, a really cute one of her tying her shoes with one of her ball caps on, the white one we buried her with, and I took it with me to sit in front of her grave. I sat on the floor, cross-legged, and I put her picture in my lap. The building was so frigid, I kept my coat on, and I put my hood over my head. With my elbows resting on my knees, I placed my chin on my fists so I could look down at her picture. I cried for a while, just looking at her face and thinking about how much things have changed since she died. I tried to pray. I wrote it down so I would remember it.

"Dear God,

I know that I have not been very faithful lately, and I, now, doubt things more than ever because I am so scared I will never get to see her again. I guess that's just a defense mechanism for me in case Heaven is not true. If you're listening, and if you're not mad at me, I have something important to ask. Please keep her safe and happy and make sure she is not scared. Please please please let it be true that I get to be with her again. I am only 24 and I already don't know how much longer my heart can be away from her. I miss her so much. I will continue to live the life of a good, caring person and strive to make you happy through my activities here on Earth. I'm doing the best I can to regain my faith, and although that is not a problem of yours, I want to make sure you know I'm really trying my best. Regardless, I will always be a good person even if my faith is lacking right now. I just ask that you watch over her and make sure she is ok from time to time. I'm sure you're very busy, so it would mean a great deal to me. Thank you.

Love, Julia.

Amen."

I felt a little more calm after I finished, scrawling my words in my notebook as I quietly thought them to myself. Shortly after, a man walked in, said "hello," and walked past me to another part of the mausoleum. He was in his sixties probably, with white hair and glasses. I heard him whisper the Lord's Prayer quietly, and then he whispered his own private prayer. I felt a little ashamed to be listening to him, because that was a very private moment for him, I'm sure. But people's faith, especially lately, fascinates me. He was crying, and he blew his nose a few times. He only stayed for about 20 minutes, and I couldn't help but wonder who he was mourning.

I looked all around at the people's names surrounding my mom's. Their first names, their last names, their dates of birth, their dates of death. Some buried alone. Some together. Some waiting for their partners to follow. Near my mom, there is a 23 year-old girl, and beside this girl is an 18 year-old boy. I think of how unfair it is that my mom is gone. 58 is not an age to be leaving this Earth. But as I did the math to figure out how old these kids were, my age, and younger, my heart caught in my chest when I realized how short their lives were cut. On the opposite wall, a 7 year-old child is buried. I will never understand. Looking at the other angle of things, it baffles me how long people can live, and how they can live that old, that long, together. Right next to my mom is a couple, both 88 years old, both born, and both died the same exact year. I thought to myself how lucky they were. To live to an old age together, and to not have to be separated for very long. My mind wandered back to my mom, and back to the kids buried near her. I can't help but wonder if these people in their 80s who died together did something right, and my mom did something wrong. Ironically, she was what you would call a "goody two-shoes" all through school, where the worst thing she did was get drunk off of wine and come home and throw up in the flower box that covered my Aunt Polly's weed. She would always giggle when she told that story. She was the kindest, most giving person of anyone I knew. She never did anything wrong, she wouldn't hurt a fly, and she would give you the shirt off her back if she knew it would make you happy.

I do not understand why God takes people like this from Earth and leaves other, very terrible people here to rot in prison after they've raped or murdered. I do not understand it at all. My Aunt Polly never did anything to anyone. And neither did my mom. They were just beautiful. The kind of people we should all be so lucky to become one day. And they didn't even have to try.

I sat with her for a while, just petting her face on the picture and smiling at her. I let myself feel how sad I was without her, and how lost I feel without her here to guide me. Now in my life are some very important moments fast approaching, and not only is she not here to share them but she is not here to help me either. I let myself be disappointed and angry. I allowed myself to cry and miss her terribly, and I let myself wallow, sitting on the floor in front of her resting place. I let myself be showered with my emotions and my sadness, because I felt literally nothing else sitting there, staring into her face, only captured in a picture and nothing more. When I felt myself relax a little, I put her picture back on the stand. I kissed my fingertips and placed them gently on her grave, and whispered, "Bye momma, love you, love you, love you," and I walked away.

I noticed out of the corner of my eye a huge arrangement of flowers and pictures where the man had been praying. I walked slowly over to the display, and saw his face in several pictures with a very beautiful woman, who I am assuming was his wife. There were picture fames and flowers hung on her grave, including one of him and her dancing together with a saying underneath about always being together. His face was so much fuller, and you could see the joy in his eyes. His face, that day in the mausoleum, looked old and lost, and almost scared. On the grave was her name, birth and death, with his name underneath followed by only his birth date.

It was the one-year anniversary of her death.

My heart broke for him, and I was reassured to see the pictures were full of a large family, so I hoped he did not have to deal with this alone. I tend to worry about people on a constant basis, even if I don't know them from a ham sandwich. I can't help myself. I think since because I know how terribly miserable it feels, I can identify with their struggles and realities, missing someone who is no longer here. I marveled at his faith, at his ability to trust in God and to send up a prayer, regardless of how badly his heart was hurting. I think this is amazingly admirable in people, and something I do not have in myself. Although, I must say, I do not feel this is lost for me. Sort of like glowing embers in a fireplace--just enough light to remind you that something is still there. It may be small, but it is not gone.