Stain-glass Eyes

The Laughing Boy -Frans Hals (Art Museum Mauritshuis) I took pic in The Hague, Netherlands with Holden I hold a little blue box With joy. A locket of hair. Its browns and golds sparkle In the light. When you were three You asked your mom to cut your hair. It floored her you know. A show of your independence. A show of her act of love. For your mom to snip your curls.   Like flecks of gold Cut away from a Byzantine Art piece. When you get to be 8 or 9 years old I’ll ask you,   “ Do you want to see a treasure?” “Of course, Nanna, show me! ” I’ll have you follow me. You’ll watch expectantly as I pull out a small blue box. Before I open it, I’ll pause. For your full attention. “This is so precious.”     I’ll say as I hug it to my heart. My eyes will make sure they reach yours. I’ll reverently open the box. “It’s hair!”  You'll most likely say with disgust. “It’s your three-year-old self’s curl,”   I’ll reply with a smile. “Your Mom let me keep one.” “Aw, Nanna,...

I saw the moon, Mom. Outside my cold kitchen window, at five a.m. No need to turn the light on. First I heard the damn thing, not a gentle owl-sound in the dark. It roared through the icy stillness. Sliced through razor-sharp. Cut deep to the heart of things beneath the frozen ground. “Look at me when I’m talking at you!” My fingertips burned, my toes near numb. My whole body shivered, so I closed my arms tightly around my chest. Not to warm myself, Mom. But to keep the simple truth from thawing. ‘You miss her!” Our obnoxious moon bellowed. Its voice bounded through the snowdrifts.   Through my cold window pane, to my icy obstructed heart. Our mammoth moon thawed my frozen, stubborn tears. The warmth from them wasn’t as scary as I’d imagined. The full moon lingered, so I slowly turned away from my window, to start my day,   A whisper stopped me, Covered my whole being with a blanket so soft and warm.......   .   “I miss you, too, Marg.” St. Ignace Moran Bay in Winter...

When I last wrote it was to give Mom voice. My way to somehow piece together her physical pain and emotional turmoil.   Her death journey. I felt helpless. Hadn’t I gained experience of how to cope with death from my husband Harry’s? Shouldn’t that give me some leverage? It took some time but I realize I wasn’t helpless when they were dying. More importantly, they weren’t either. Death isn’t really any different than life. One day at a time using whatever you have and yield to love. The experience I gained wasn’t about death. Death doesn’t teach you. It strips you of every power you thought you hid safely in your Denial Pocket . Powers useless at such a time.   Love dangles in front of our noses when a loved one is dying. We can either turn away or hug the hell out of it. Anger and resentment also try to distract us. Neither of those feelings heal the pain we go through. Mom and Harry both had charms of a four-leaf clover— they never said “Uncle”. Never wanted to appear helple...

Ever since my son-in-law said death was like birth it has spun around in my head bouncing back and forth. To me it seemed like the exact opposite. Until I looked at it from an illness view-point it felt like the comparison wasn’t accurate. My mom is at the end of her life. She’s passing and she is not ill. Her body is done and her mind has wrapped itself around the facts. She said “I’m done” last week. Not her being done with curing an illness, getting better and living another ten years. Done with treating this time in her life as an illness and going from emergency room, back home and soon to emergency room again. Blood draws, X-rays, Infusions, urine samples new meds, new advice for her and her caregivers. She asked her doctor to be referred to Hospice. She asked more than once. More than one nurse, doctor, social worker. She shouldn’t have to voice this wish of hers. Her body resonates “I’m passing on”. Her every movement, pain, fatigue, difficulties with everything.   She’s wa...