Your morning thought for the day:
How important it is for us to recognize
and celebrate our heroes and she-roes!
-- Maya Angelou
LINGERING MEMORIES
by Joseph Walker
"She's gone."
It was my brother Bud on the phone. He had called earlier to
advise me that mom's long and difficult battle with a killer called
pulmonary fibrosis would soon be over. For months doctors had warned
us that this was coming, and I thought I was pretty much prepared for
the inevitable. But when Bud spoke those two simple, all-too-final
words, it inflicted a wound deep into my soul.
The blessed numbness that often accompanies the death of a loved
one saw me through a week of funeral preparations and services. I
found comfort in the laughter and tears I shared with my brothers and
sisters, and solace in a quote my dad referenced several times during
the week:
I'm wounded, Sir Launfall said,
Wounded -- but not slain.
So I'll just lie and bleed a while
Then rise and fight again!
After the rites were over, however, the numbness wore away,
leaving a gaping hole in my heart. I was the youngest of mom's eight
children, and we shared a special relationship as a result of having
her to myself during my teenage years. Even after Anita and I
married, we lived close enough that we could drop in frequently for
card games and Sunday dinners.
Mom was a huge part of my life, and it was hard to let her go --
even after she was gone. No matter what I tried, I couldn't fill the
hole her passing left in my life. I found myself stopping by the
cemetery often and mourning at her grave, oblivious to the passage of
time. These long absences were difficult to explain to Anita, who
thought that instead of living in the past with my memories of mom,
perhaps I should spend more time making memories with my own children.
Anita was right, of course -- I understood that even then. But
no matter how hard I tried to focus my time and attention upon the
living, there was nothing I could do to fill the empty place in my
heart. When my father remarried, I rejoiced in his happiness --
especially since Jean, the woman he married, is such a terrific lady.
But I still missed mom, and I looked for every opportunity to go to
the cemetery, where I felt closer to her somehow.
A few years after dad remarried, he and Jean decided to take a
few months to do some volunteer work for our church -- something he
and mom had talked about but had been unable to do because of mom's
health. To tell you the truth, I sort of resented that dad was going
to fulfill this dream without her. And I think dad picked up on that.
A couple of days before they left, he invited me to go to lunch
with him. We talked about this exciting adventure, and how he was
looking forward to it. Then he said, "You know, there's only one
thing I regret about this."
"What's that?" I asked.
"That your mother and I weren't able to do this." He paused a
moment, and for the first time I noticed that his eyes were moist and
red. "There are many things that I wish we could have done before...
well, before she moved on. But there's nothing I can do about that
now. I've just got to move on." He looked at me seriously, then
added, "And so do you."
Somehow in that moment I began to understand. Mom had moved on.
Dad was moving on. And now, it finally occurred to me, so must I.
I began spending less time at the cemetery after that. These
days, I mostly go on Memorial Day. I spend part of that special day
there, lingering with my memories of mom.
And then I spend the rest of the year moving on.
-- Joseph Walker <ValueSpeak at msn.com>
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Joe is a Heartwarmer Gem from Utah.
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