a gift (found inside the missing and wishing)
backyard dogwood, south carolina . spring, 2009
for the first year, all i wanted was one more day, hour, breath, second. i just wanted to pick up the phone and hear her voice say, "hello" in that funny, "i'm so glad it's you" sort of way. as my brain tried to train itself to realize that i would never see her, hear her again, my cracked-open heart tried to remember to keep working.
this is a piece of what my first experience of the path of grief felt like.
the wishing. the missing.
*****
this march was the first time after her death and the last time that i would visit the home away from home that was my grandparents' home. trying to soak up everything while standing on another branch of the path of grief was difficult. i took a lot of photos, but i wish i would have taken more. i wish i would have written while sitting on the backporch. but when a family gathers for a funeral, there isn't much time to take it all in. and then, in the weeks that followed, the "settling of the estate" began. and as a grandchild, i did not have a role. which i understood intellectually...yet, this was my home away from home...a home filled with unconditional love that i had experienced...even if this might not have been the experience of everyone.
my mother would call and we would talk about "the list" of "stuff" and what we might want.
and as i would look at this list of "stuff," the feeling began again. i want one more minute. i just want to tell her all that i have learned. i want her to know this me, this me that grief has birthed. i want to ask her so many questions. i don't care about any of the stuff, i just want her. i just want her.
during this time, my mind kept turning around this phrase: all that they were became a list in a word document with a total at the end. all that they were. all that they were.
the missing became the drum of my heart yet again.
*****
weeks later, the boxes arrived at my mother's house. a lot of boxes. the journey she has been on to go through them...the journey that is not always about missing in the same way my journey is. a child's grief, so very different from a grandchild's or a friend's.
a few weeks ago, she sent two boxes full of some of the things from that house. being sick for several weeks, and some other things that have made life a bit fuller, made for the realization that i didn't quite have the energy to open the boxes. i didn't want to sift through the feelings again, and i didn't want to uncover new ones. i just walked around the boxes and stacked things on top of them.
*****
alone in the quiet saturday night, i found myself noticing those two white boxes and wondering. as i lifted out sewing supplies, linens, odds and ends, i began wishing i could ask her about the seven days-of-the-week embroidered towels and the odd beginnings to a pillow and the red "happy time" harmonica.
the wishing. the missing.
in the second box, under a few other things, there was layer upon layer of bubble wrap around a box. as i began to unwrap it, the quiet mingled with the scent of her.
the jewelry box that had sat on her dresser for decades. the jewelry box that had sat there as she put on her makeup, sprayed her perfume, decided which pair of clip-on earrings to wear.
the jewelry box soaked up that perfume and makeup and pieces of a life; it soaked up the scents of that life, her life, and they settled in. as i opened that box, the scent swirled around me and i closed my eyes to remember.
the little girl visiting her favorite people and sleeping in that room. supposed to be napping, she peeks inside that box, lifts the lid of a compact, opens the bottle of perfume and breathes in deeply. the little girl sits on the stool in front of the dresser and looks in the mirror wondering what it might be like to be old enough to wear this perfume and use the pencils and brushes. the little girl who feels so at home in this room, who feels so loved in this room. the little girl who is the woman who remembers this love. this woman who takes a breath and deeply misses.
the jewelry box that was on a list that became part of a decision. the jewelry box that was wrapped up and put into a box and then another box now sits inside this home on another coast, part of another life. the jewelry box that became another step on the path as it became the gift of one more minute, one more second, one more breath.
the gift of one more breath.
(thank you)
liz lamoreux
Reader Comments (13)
Beautiful, Liz.
A bigger gift, I think, than you might have imagined upon opening that second white box. So many emotions and memories, yet it came to that one important moment when what is really really important shined through and enveloped you. And through it all, it now sits safely with you. xoxoxo
there is something about scent that can transport us
so deeply...i wonder why that is...
and you write beautifully,
i feel your words with my heart.
xo
i am going down this path now, with my parents. staying at the house for the past five days, leaving yesterday morning in the pouring rain while my heart tugged and tugged. my mother standing and waving until my car was out of sight - daddy standing in the kitchen with his head tucked down because he was crying and didn't want me to leave - my mother asking me if i wanted the trunk in the foyer, the one that had been there for 39 years. if i wanted the childhood books from the many shelves in the den. it begins, now, as their plans to move are imminent and my heart is breaking. i know your sadness all too well.
beautiful post, honey. xo
as i read, i am the child...my daughter, the grandchild. and as i read, i can see so clearly that she will be doing exactly what you've been doing...that i AM doing what your mother did. it is a path one could almost travel with eyes closed because it is so familiar...but must tread lightly because of not wanting to miss anything, disturb anything. mom's been gone since june and it is me that is trying to help my dad go down this very same, exact path. he isn't quite ready to move yet, but he wants "help with the stuff." you wrote exactly, exactly as it really is. and it is beautiful. thank you.
liz, thank you for being so raw. 2 weeks before my own mom passed away from cancer she asked me what "special things" i wanted from her home. choked up, i could mutter only..."YOU! i only want YOU!" i still have a christmas package wrapped in dazzling silver paper that sits at the top of my closet...unopened. it's been 5 years this month. somehow not opening this gift makes her linger a bit closer. your expression of grief is beautiful, as always. thank you!
thank you, Liz. Beautifully observed and a truth for anyone who has lost their beloved. It hurts so much and in so many different ways. I too know.
beautiful post.
so raw...so beautifully written.
i feel your words, your sadness, your understanding...thank you for sharing.
As your grandmother was a gift to you, so are you to others in your own wonderful way.
thank you for sharing. you have such a gift for capturing the feelings.
I have been following your blog for a while, but have never commented until now.
I lost my mom 3 and a half years ago and I have her jewellery box on my dressing table. It has another life on another continent now. I hope my daughter will have it one day. I also have the feeling of wanting her now as I am raising 2 small children with no mother to give me advice. I am so grateful that I had her when I did. Life is so beautiful and so painful at the same time.
Thank you for writing this post.
oh liz. i feel you. you are safe in your grandmother's love and in your own skin. she is deeply loved indeed and you are a living tribute to her.