I would give anything to go back to three weeks ago when I was visiting Mom, and I would tell her how much I love her, that she was a wonderful mother, how grateful I am that she was my mother. I’d tell her how much I appreciate all the sacrifices she made for my sisters and me over the years, how lucky I feel to have had such a good relationship with her. I’d tell her what a great role model she was, how much I look up to her and hope to be half as magnanimous and knowledgeable as her, that I aspire to be a humanitarian like her, that I am working on becoming more politically aware and educated about what’s going on in the world. I would tell her how grateful I am that God chose her to be my mother, and I’d tell her my belief that my soul chose her to be my mother.
I read somewhere that our souls choose our parents, and while truly I have no idea what my soul chooses or if it has the power of choice, nor do I understand why my soul would choose my father, who’s impossible to get close to on account of a possible mental illness or maybe just alcoholism—and I’m sure there’s at least one lesson there to be learned—I like the idea that my soul chose my mom and my sisters, and that we will always be together in some way. That if we reincarnate, we will still be in relationship with each other in some way. I like that idea, and therefore will go with it.
Nothing I do feels like enough, or like the right thing. Any time I start to do one thing, I want to be doing something else. Being inside buildings feels oppressive. I’ve downloaded so many samples of books to read, yet when I start reading, for example, Mark Twain, because I love him and so did Mom, I decide instead to read a spiritual book about angels, which turned out to be what one might call snake oil. The writer is a woman who goes on tours to woo crowds with her dead-person-communication capabilities, and she’s been on talk shows, wandering around with comments like, “I am sensing that someone here lost their mother in an accident, and that the whole family is here together today.” So then I start reading a self-help book about grieving only to feel that it’s not exactly what I want to be reading either.
One thing I read in one of the Kindle samples was that from death can come the act of living more meaningfully, which prompted me to think of things I want to tell my sisters, and do for them. Here’s what I want to do:
- Make a playlist of meaningful songs
- Tell them I love them, that I’m grateful to have them as sisters
- Buy books for them that have helped me on my journey and which may help them too
- Write a story or poem for them
- Visit them more often
I’ll try to remember that Mom knows how much I love her, that she knew how much I loved her. Right now it’s hard not to feel regret. I do know my last words to her were, “I love you,” because I have it in text. It was a rare time I remembered to let her know I’d made it home okay. The last time I saw her was in her driveway, watching me drive away, waving at me.