For Marion - 1978

God we've had our differences. The memories of late night arguments (Where were you? What were you doing? Don't you know how I worry?) come back to me every time I walk through the door of my dark, quiet house late in the evening. I remember the morning cold shoulders, breakfast in silence, the "if looks could kill" expression on your face every time I'd displease you. I didn't do it on purpose. We were just so different.

We were so much alike. Birds of a feather just can't roost together. I would do and do and do for you, trying to make up for the negative in our relationship; trying to appease you. I did try. I just never saw that you were trying, too.

How did you feel? Destroyed because I couldn't always return your love in a way you could understand; couldn't share the things that meant so much to you? Hurting because my soul was so obviously in turmoil and I wouldn't let you help? I was hurting, too. I didn't know how to let you know it.

Parting was sweet sorrow, but it made us so much closer. I eagerly anticipate our times together. It's a long drive to see you, but it's worth it. I do so love you.

You were the first woman I ever loved and the most important woman in my life. I've matured now, I can say that to your face and accept your embrace without shrugging you off. I do see that you did so much for me. You tried and tried when others would have given up, when I had given up. You gave me an example to live by, an example to love by, an example by which to judge myself. I think I'm a lot like you. If we could do it over again, I'd try to do it different, do it better; but I don't know that it would turn out that way.

I'm sorry for my anger and my temper and my refusal to let you into my life during the times when you most needed me and I most needed you. I'm sorry for the past, the hurt; which probably wasn't as much as it seems, but which casts a shadow over everything else. And I'm grateful for the present, for the joy that we share, for the love which is so abundant now and so willingly accepted, and so admittedly needed.

I wish you happiness and a safe journey through your life. May what time we have left on earth be spent as soul-mates. I love you, Mom.

A poem - 1993

Come to me, she whispered
Come to me, she cried
Come to me, I love you, she promised, but she lied.

Come to me, I need you - come to me, I'll try. Come to me, lay with me, stay through the night

Come to me, I begged her
Come to me, I sighed
Come to me, stay with me, don't say goodbye

The refrain never changes
It echoes in my mind
Come to me, I need you, come to me, I'll try

The door gently closes
Silently I cry
Come to me, lay with me, at least stay the night

Regarding My Mom’s Passing

My mom ended up in Hospice last year. She died of lung cancer and was in Hospice care for only a week before she passed. When she moved into the Hospice House, I moved in with her and rarely left her side. I held her, comforted her, prayed for her, sang to her, put cream on her skin, dabbed water on her lips and when the time came, when her realization came that it was time to go, I held her even tighter and let her know it was ok to move on, Mom, you go on – I’ll take care of things here.

After all was said and done, after I’d had time to empty myself of tears and to reflect on the sad strange journey that lead from my mom laughing at the dinner table to my mom dying, I realized two things. First, that what I had done for my mom was something that I was good at; that I had the patience to simply be there 100%. The second thing I realized was that I no longer cried as much any more. I couldn’t muster the tears for mundane tender moments or for someone else’s passing.

As a result of the first realization, I became a Hospice volunteer. A Vigil Volunteer, specifically. I sit with patients who are actively dying so they won’t be alone when they pass. Hospice believes no one should die alone. I believe no one should die without someone holding their hand at the very least.

Regarding the second realization – well, I still don’t cry as much as I used to. It isn’t due to a lessening of compassion so much as a new perspective of life … and death. I used to sob during commercials and at proclamations of love and such. But no longer – and no big loss.

But I do still cry for my Mother.

A Poem

I don't want to be a mother,
and see a crimson life tumble from my womb,
to make demands on me
and cling to me for years
and then insist that I let go.