On Sunday, it will be a year since my Mother passed away. It is also a sad day for the people of Japan-a day of remembrance for all the dead who lost their lives during the horrific earthquake.
I visited my Mom in the hospice that day-she slept during the whole visit. I brought a crossword or two for us to do together which was wanted just the day before, when she was bright and almost cheery. She died later that night, Cara (my ex-wife) by her side. When Cara called to give me the news, she was a bit taken aback that I would not come to be by my Mother's side. I didn't have the strength. I guess you can figure why I've never visited their grave.
My Dad passed a little less than three weeks before-I was there when he died. I don;t know if he knew it, but others have assured me that he did. I have mildly cursed him through this year as I've been getting rid of his vast stockpile of stuff. It has taken me that long.
Tomorrow, I put their house up for sale, the house they lived in most of their adult lives. The plaque my Dad made reads "July 31, 1948". The house holds their story, but not mine. I dunno why I've never felt tied to the house-maybe that will all change now as I go through the motions of turning it over to strangers. Much like a near-death episode, will all that I've experienced there now flood back over me in final remembrance?
Although I suppose they lived long, healthy lives, those lives still feel like they were far too short. The lesson here is to live the days like they were your last-right now I hear Joplin belting out "git it while you can...".
I visited my Mom in the hospice that day-she slept during the whole visit. I brought a crossword or two for us to do together which was wanted just the day before, when she was bright and almost cheery. She died later that night, Cara (my ex-wife) by her side. When Cara called to give me the news, she was a bit taken aback that I would not come to be by my Mother's side. I didn't have the strength. I guess you can figure why I've never visited their grave.
My Dad passed a little less than three weeks before-I was there when he died. I don;t know if he knew it, but others have assured me that he did. I have mildly cursed him through this year as I've been getting rid of his vast stockpile of stuff. It has taken me that long.
Tomorrow, I put their house up for sale, the house they lived in most of their adult lives. The plaque my Dad made reads "July 31, 1948". The house holds their story, but not mine. I dunno why I've never felt tied to the house-maybe that will all change now as I go through the motions of turning it over to strangers. Much like a near-death episode, will all that I've experienced there now flood back over me in final remembrance?
Although I suppose they lived long, healthy lives, those lives still feel like they were far too short. The lesson here is to live the days like they were your last-right now I hear Joplin belting out "git it while you can...".
