A brief glimpse of my mother.

[kali921]

It's just starting to hit me now that my mother is gone. I'm starting to go to pieces every few hours. I'm sure it'll take a while to really sink in, so bear with me. The nightmares over the last five days have just been the icing on the Cake of Bereavement, let me tell you, flist.

Comments

[spectralbovine]

I am glad you had a kind and understanding plumber.

Babar!

Your mother sounds like a hell of a woman, and it's clear she's responsible for making you the woman you are today.

[kali921]

Babar. My mom was a big fan of 1) elephants, 2) children's literature (because she was a teacher for a time), 3) the French, and 4) shooting poachers and people who mistreat animals.

Although when examined under the illumination of post-colonial theory, I'm sure she was horrified by some of the more, ah, problematic themes of the Babar books. But what the hell - we were both in it for the elephants!

[canadabear]

That's a beautiful look into what your mother means to you and who she helped shape you into. One day a time, love. It's all you can do.

[kali921]

Thank you.

Right now, it's "Can I get through the next five minutes" rather than "Can I get through the day," but perhaps that'll change.

My poor aunt. She's devastated. Her nursing home friends are devastated. My brother's the only one who seems to be fine.

Thank god my cousin came to Arizona as soon as he heard what happened - he distracted me with his bracingly caustic humor, ferociously biting wit, and by getting pissed off at the same things that were pissing me off while we were there. (We also spent an inordinate amount of time talking tattoos, film, and history, so that made things slightly more bearable, otherwise I'd have drowned myself in my hotel bathtub.)

[hero_farmboy]

One breath at a time, then.

I got swept up in re-reading old Clark-Kendra threads the other day. Those always cheer me up.

[kali921]

Maybe I should do that - because they almost never fail to force a grin onto my face (and also, WOW, you were so patient with me when I typed those sixteen paragraph Kendra tags).

But in the good way.

[alephz]

Continued sympathy and condolences.

Never know what else to say.

[box_in_the_box]

A wonderfully evocative tribute.

[kali921]

Not really. More the awkward prose stylings of someone who is too stunned to know that she shouldn't be trying to write in this state.

[box_in_the_box]

STOP IT. You write well here, regardless of your grief (and perhaps even because of it), and I will not hear differently.

[shadowlongknife]

What Box said up there, just above me? Same goes for me. You stop denigrating yourself while you try and handle this unhandlable thing, honey, right now. This is me stamping my foot down.

Lovely

[jazzypom]

Your mum will never *die* in that respect. She lives in you, and all the people that she touched during her life. It's the little things, every time you see the moon, or laugh at silly Barbar, or ... touch the New Yorker or say a poem. You'll laugh, you'll cry, but she'll be there in the best way. She's wrapped in your memories and will live there as long as you need her to.

Re: Lovely

[kali921]

My mother wasn't really into poetry, and neither am I. She was certainly literate in poetry, but she gravitated more towards non-fiction, novels, and essays.

But over the last week, my aunt and I have both been reading certain poets and finding solace in their work. It's been surprising.

Heh, I don't know

[jazzypom]

If it's surprising. The best poems are the ones where each word is laden with multiple meanings, and just captures a moment and gives comfort. A good poem can move me to tears. John Donne has a lovely sonnet.

X.

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so ;
For those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy picture[s] be,
Much pleasure, then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou'rt slave to Fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,
And better than thy stroke ; why swell'st thou then ?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more ; Death, thou shalt die.