In this season between the traditional times of Totenfest, I find myself remembering my mother. Anyone who knew her well and knows me at all can see traits of hers in my being. Practicality, logic, ration, frugality, eccentricity are all words that could describe either of us. Can do and make do are attitudes I learned from her. Like her, I often forget where I've left my purse; and like her, I've taken to wearing it over my shoulder and across my chest so that it doesn't get away from me. (Unlike her, my purse is tiny and contains the bare necessities instead of anything that might possibly be needed.)
Over the 8+ years since my mother's death, the hole in my being where she lived has become a familiar part of who I am. Early on, I stumbled into it frequently and found myself shedding tears over my loss. That hole is still there: I still long to pick up the telephone and call her for a recipe or to share some good news (shouting it so she'd actually hear it, then explaining it so she'd understand its importance to me). I still miss her e-mail notes with daily itinerary and menus from her days since her last e-mail. When I open my cookbooks or photo albums and find a note with her handwriting -- a piece cut from old file folder turned into a post card with a recipe or an address she sent to me by request-- the vacuum is obvious to me. As my children have become young men with lives of their own, as my nieces and nephews have babies, as my life reaches numeric and chronological markers, I look into that hole and wonder -- even speculate -- what her response would be to these.
The hole has not filled in over time, but it has become familiar and less forbearing. As time has passed, it has even become the source of celebration, of joy, of moments of warmth and loveliness. That does not discount nor make nostalgic the less than happy memories: embarrassment, hurtful words exchanged, inexplicable actions. Those will always be part of the memory and, fortunately, part of the vacuum. Those memories have become markers and reminders of where I need to draw the line between her being and my being.
When I find myself doing or saying something particularly frugal, practical, rational, or otherwise "Evelynesque," I've been know to break out into song -- a particular song with an Easter melody:
She lives! She lives! Dear Evelyn lives today!
She walks with me and talks with me
Along life's rational (or practical or frugal) way!
She lives! She lives! Frugality none too terse
You ask me how I know she lives,
She lives within my purse!
Perhaps that could be seen as sacrilegious. That's not the intent. As with her, there's no malice in my actions here. To me it's a humorous way to honor one whose influence on my life is noticeable in everyday ways, to acknowledge that seed of who I have become and am becoming, and to celebrate the life of one important to me.
What do you do with regularity to lift up and honor the life of someone important to you? Where is his or her life reflected in your actions, attitudes, perspectives, or words? How does a sense of loss become a source of celebration in your everyday living?
