There will be no smell of toast, cooking in the kitchen, there will be no bacon or eggs sizzling in the pan, there will be no coffee brewing in any pot, and there will be no tiptoeing in any bedroom. There will be no gift to give, and there will be no flowers to deliver … Not to the living or to the dead.
It’s been eight long years since our mama has died. At first, the pain was unbearable, but as time slipped by, we’ve grown used to the fact that her laughter will no longer echo down hallways or linger in the kitchen. We’ve grown used to the fact that she will no longer fill the house with those delectable aromas of her truly famous cooking or give us advice when needed. We’ve grown used to the fact she’s not there to share a gentle or even a firm reassuring hug. As a matter of fact, she’s not there for any of that nor will she be ever again.
But, every year, as the strongest strands of her splintered family, we unite around her empty chair and lie to ourselves about what we have grown accustomed to. We will lie to ourselves about her death getting easier as the calendar pages begin to fall. We will lie to ourselves as we say, “Oh, our kids/grandkids can’t really miss someone they didn’t really know.” And, we will lie to ourselves about the fact we still have no idea where her remains have been scattered. Yet, at the close of each day, we go to bed knowing that our mama’s suffering has ended.
The mystery of her ashes no longer haunts us nor does it matter what he did with her earthly possessions. It no longer matters that he stole her away like a thief in the night. It no longer matters that he separated her from her family and treated her so badly. For we know in her death, our Mama is dancing her days away up there in heaven. We now know, our mama is safe and she is free!
JenniferBrockie(C)2023
