they say – and i have seen it actually – there is a moment of lucidity before the final departure.
the whole of today is torn by flashbacks. of pictures of sudden bursts of coherence and actual joy when my mother spoke like she was better.
of the little flutter of hope.
and then, the leaving, just for a day, to settle things in the city.
and coming back to knee-deep mud on the roads, and an empty place.
i could not do otherwise. i kept my promise. and still, the what i know and what i feel are at odds.
she was in the light. in THE light. what else could i wish for.
that i would not lose her so soon after i’d finally found her? my fault, and entirely my own to find her so late.
this is my third spring full of fear of telephone calls, and silence, and uncompared birds. of having no home, and building my own so slowly.
they say, things pass. memories pass. i have forgotten her face, and what her grave looks like. but i cannot forget her little shape, crumpled on the bed, and the light slowly taking over.
no, mothers, upon death, do not become angels. they… move on, into freedom. into light.
untied to this existence, mothers become lucid, and clouds, and birch-sap, and golden brandy that smells of liquid sun.
and my emptiness hurts wordlessly.