I've seen Fire and I've seen Rain

I have a playlist of songs entitled "songs that make me cry".  At my old job, during surgery we would sometimes listen to a list we affectionately called "songs to kill yourself to".  Dennis looks over at me and says "why do women do that? Listen to music that upsets them?"  It is crazy. But somehow the weight in your chest that feels like it has no release, when you listen to certain music and let the pain out, the pressure lessens. Or so it seems to.

There is a bottle of water on the table in front of me. And it made me think about how much water we have drank since we went food shopping a few days ago. And that we need more water...and then I thought, my life has gone on. I'm living, breathing and drinking water. How could I when people I love are gone.

"Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone........

I've seen fire and I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend but I always that that I would see you again"

Grieving has a process, life moves forward. Its healthy and natural. But it feels so wrong. How can life move on when a huge piece of you is missing? How? There are so many stories I haven't told her, so many things to ask her, so many ways to make her laugh, so many things to get her support on. How can life just keep moving when I don't want it to? How did I let this happen? Am I forgetting her?

And then you think about the people still in your life that you don't get to see. You are missing out on their lives, the moments every day that mold them, change them.  Daily events and decisions. Joy and fears, highs and lows. And no manner of distant contact can make up for not being there. And I am not there right now. I am so very far away, from all the things I love. 

Life is even more fragile then I ever thought, even more fleeting.  People simply disappear and there is nothing you can do. No manner of wishing or wanting or pleading will bring them back again. I went to France in a bubble of newness and joy the first time. And while I was gone, everything changed. And that changed me. I'm sitting at this table staring at a bottle of water, listening to James Taylor, crying over memories I am afraid to lose. Crying over the memories I am missing out on. Crying because I am living when people I love are sleeping. People I need. And no matter how hard I cry, the sun will rise and we will need more water tomorrow and we are forced to live, live without them. 

There is a grief that arises from the healing of a pain. As if the sharpness of the pain was tangible enough to hold you tight to that person. And when the pain fades, will they fade with it? Will you be letting them go? Is their face, their voice, their laugh vanishing? I find comfort in the pain. With the pain I know she is close to me, I can see her tossing her salad with her cargo pant capris and lipstick on. She is alive in my memories, even within the cloud of pain so heavy I can't take a breath. She is there, cheering me on, laughing at my stories. She is still alive and well in my mind. If I heal, I will forget. If I forget, I will die.

"thought I'd see you one more time again"

Reflections

What is home? Beyond the cliques and the poets, the song lyrics and the comics…what makes us feel home?  For my mother-in-law (my belle-mére) this apartment with the views of the sea is home for her.  With the collections of  pictures on every surface and every wall, with the piano in the corner with the bust of Beethoven sitting on top, staring sightlessly out at me.  With the orange awnings that must be wound up or down throughout the day depending on the location of the sun. The sound of scooters and motorbikes zooming by and the parking lot below her balcony with its constant traffic to keep her occupied and entertained.  Home to her is here, in France.  No matter how hot it gets or cold, no matter how far it is from her children.  This is where her sweaters are and her slippers.  This is where her memories are. This is where she wants to be.

I remember most the smell of home.  Earliest memory tells me that the smell of safety and home was imbedded in my mother’s sweater.  Not just any or every sweater she had. It was one specific sweater, ivory colored with big buttons.  Not scratchy wool, most likely cotton and it smelled like mom.  Like comfort.  Not a specific perfume or product.  Just the essence of my mother and no matter what, with that sweater I felt everything would be ok.  It was powerful.  It was home. When I felt scared without her, the sweater calmed me down.

Here, living in a foreign land with no markers of my own, I feel like I’m drifting through a current, in someone else’s home.  I have no mom sweater.  I’ve heard people say that home is where your love is.  Well, my love is here.  My heart is in France.  But my spirit is adrift. Maybe I am without physical location currently and therefore am not at rest.  I have been rootless for so long, drifting from roommate to parents to living with my in-law…perhaps my soul is in a holding pattern..like a hummingbird not ready to land.  For me, home is what I carry with me, deep inside me.  The stories I know, told and untold, the memories I cherish and the dreams I hold dear.  And some day I will have walls to pin those memories up on and slippers to keep.  But for now, home is a goal, a distant hope and the reality is constant movement and change,  the sweet nectar of a passing flower.