Dear Mom,
This morning, it is silence you seek. You said that to me after we were alone. You are in need of quiet and a calm space in order to pass. “There is a white butterfly,” You said as you pointed to the ceiling. Later, you paused what you were telling me and said, “There are people here, they walk in front of me one by one.” You looked toward the end of the bed. “They are preparing me to go.”
Anyone who has been around someone dying knows that this is natural, normal, and a sign of things to come. In my younger years I questioned the existence of God, as sort of a rebellion, but as I grew older, and the losses started to add up, I knew there was more out there. I have seen too many things that have shown me the presence of others that are beyond our world. There is something greater than ourselves. You often told me that but as with most things in life, we have to learn it for ourselves, often through difficult times. You said you did not recognize the people that are here for you.
“Do you feel comfortable with them?” I asked.
“Yes, they are telling me it’s time. They are getting me ready.”
I saw your eyes become heavy and told you it’s time to rest. Rest is important while dying. You have to prepare your body for passing. I simply said, “I will read and write you another letter while you sleep. I want you to do what is needed.” It was me, once again, giving you the okay to let go. “There is no more to be said or done,” I added.
As I watch you sleep I wonder how I will remember you? I mean, will it be when you were younger? Perhaps, it will be at the age I am now? My memory could hold tight to you being old, maybe sick even, because much of your old age has been weighed down with illness. I am not sure, but I predict, like all memories, that you will fade in and out of various shapes and forms and variations of who you once were. Memory is a gift and it can be haunting.
Love,
Chuck
