Still. . .
Grief can teach us a thing or two about irony. No matter the relationship we had with someone, we take the time to re-evaluate. So it is for me.
My mom died on August 6th out-of-state and I have been dealing with her estate. As far as I can determine, she died without a will or insurance. My aunt paid for her to be cremated and we’re waiting on the arrival of her ashes before proceeding to the next step of choosing an urn and depositing her ashes.
The hubber and I will be heading to WI next weekend to go through things and bring back what we can (we may have to rent a storage unit and finish up another week). I am told by the housing authority that she was a hoarder, which makes things even more interesting. We had what could best be described as an awkward relationship: abandonment, very limited contact growing up, she didn’t raise me, etc but over the past 15 years had managed a cordial, yet infrequent contact.
She died from COPD, heart failure, brain and bone cancer. Those facts are sobering and are making me evaluate my health habits.
Even though we weren’t close, I still want my mother. Even though. . .At this point in time, I have nothing of hers – no photos, no mementos, few memories except of abuse at the hands of my stepfather. Still, as the oldest living child and with a brother who is incarcerated, I want my mother. I want to see her things, I want to know what she surrounded herself with and why those items or persons were important, I want to wrap up the loose ends, tie them in a bow and present the present to myself.
While the adult in me knows better than to attach a desired outcome to the experience, the inner child clings to the hope of finding something that tells me that she loved me in any sort of way. Still.
Still, still, still. And willow weeps for me.