Ramblings of an Inquisitive Mind

There are days when the air I breathe feels too thick and too heavy to move through my lungs. Engulfed by my sorrow, it gets captured and forced in the opposite direction before I get the much-needed benefits of a cleansing breath. Those are the same days when eating—just the act of chewing and swallowing—seems impossible. The food seems to expand in my mouth, and when it hits my stomach it feels like a rock colliding with a brick wall. Getting anything down seems like a major accomplishment.

Today is one of those days. Four years ago today my sister Martha Gail and I sat on the bed that held the shell of what once was our mother. We held her hands and kissed her cheeks and told her we loved her. Then we watched her breathe her last breath and slip peacefully into the unknown.

As I prepared to make all the calls that needed to be made, before I could make the first call all of my dogs, who were in crates in the outside carport, began to howl. My dogs never howl. I truly believe they felt my mother’s spirit as it left the confines of her body. It was one of the weirdest, yet most perfect, experiences of my life.

I made my calls: to hospice, her caregiver, her best friend, one of her brothers. As people came in and out of the house that night the whole experience seemed like déjà vu, since we had lost our father just three weeks before.

I miss them more than I can put into words. So many days I think of picking up the phone to call them, and every time I am jolted back to reality: That is not possible anymore. I often feel like an orphaned child, which I’m sure most of us feel when we lose our parents.

So today is one of those days. I just need to soak in the sunshine, feel the warmth of it on my skin. Feel the breeze through my hair and listen to the birds and to nature. Allow the earth to fill my soul with life, when inside I feel so dead and so alone.

I miss you, Mom.