Dear Mom,
The watch is slicing time. There is a dancing click to the seconds, a tap dance more than a ballet, and the anticipation of when your last breath will come is agonizing. I try to remember my mindfulness and stoic studies and be completely in the moment and not focus on what is to soon come. I also attempt to remind myself that you are not mine or anyone’s to keep because we are all impermanent.
I leaned over your shoulder today attempting to stand and leave and I broke. My head fell to your body as if my core gave way at the waist and my soul collapsed. Even in your weakened state you moved your hand from the warmth of the blankets and placed it on my head and stroked the bristles of my hair to comfort me. It proves I am still a boy, your child, and you are my mother. You will always be our mother. You proved that today as you asked both of your sons if we are taking care of ourselves and eating. There you are, dying by the moment, short of breath, pain trickling through your limbs, in a feverish state, and you are checking to see if we are okay.
When I had a moment alone with you today and we just sat holding hands, looking into one another’s eyes, I said to you, “I am going to miss you. I am going to miss our talks.”
“Well, we certainly have said a lot to each other in our time together, haven’t we,” you said. “We laid it all on the table.”
“I love you,” I held your hand tighter and then I had to ask a question, “I hope I was a good son?” Here I am again, seeking validation. It’s something I am working on, trying to recognize that I am worthy and good enough.
“You have been a wonderful son. Ever since you were a little boy, cuddling next to my side, you have loved me and I loved you.” Then, in between breaths you said, “This is going to hurt.” Once again, as always, you are trying to prepare me for tough times. It’s why we are so resilient.
“I know, but it’s been hurting a long time.” You nodded recognizing the pain of the past couple years.
I cried on your shoulder some more and you held my hand with what strength you have left, holding me a little tighter, trying to take my pain away with your touch.
Death is like a dry whisper. It is there, lingering in the air, but too shallow in its voice for us to hear quite yet. However, it is getting louder. Death is coming and it is ready to scream. The signs of life leaving your body are all there and standing in formation like tired soldiers ready to march forward no matter the consequence of battle, and finally take over. Death will conquer. We are watching your body give itself away slowly. I wish I could put you back together and make you healthy again, but it is time. We both said it to each other today. It’s time for you to leave and we are both ready. At least, as ready as we can be. I still have this desire to just put you in my truck and drive to the woods, carrying you through the trees and letting you smell the pines again.
I am now here in your apartment, sitting among your belongings, in your chair, and I can feel your presence. I am comfortable. I am safe. I am in your home, which has always been mine. You said to me today, “When you smell chicken and dumplings, I will be there. It’s me.” You said the same thing to me a few days ago about walking in the woods. You told me when I see the trees sway and smell the wind, you will be next to me. I will walk the woods often and wait for those moments.
I wish you were something that death can’t steal but I am afraid it’s a clever thief.
In your poem, A Fearless Death, you write, “I ask that death allow me the freedom that my life denied…” In our conversations, we have often talked about your life and its purpose, just as we have mine. In some ways, I understand why you would write that because you struggled with freedom. You became a mother at seventeen, stranded in a thoughtless marriage, raising five children, working your knuckles raw. It may seem like freedom was running from you and not attainable. Still, I always challenged your thoughts telling you that your life has been extraordinary. I would always tell you, “We should never hope for an easy life. When we suffer, it helps us build resilience and grit, and makes us stronger. A hard life provides more stories to tell.” You always liked that and it made you feel as if you did your best. Yet, I hope that when you do pass over to wherever it is that you are going, you have the freedom and will to do what you have always dreamed of.
There’s this incredible heaviness on my chest to the truth I am about to tell. I hope that you will pass soon. I know it is coming but as you said, “I don’t know what the good lord is waiting for. I am ready.” The most loving thing that a son can want for his mother is for her to no longer suffer. Yet, it pains me to want to see you pass so you no longer have to hold the pain that you have been carrying in your body. To say that I want you to die rips out my lungs, but I know it is best for you. Because I love you, I want your death to arrive.
Oh dear mother, it is coming soon. Death is lingering. I felt it. It is near and it will take you from us in body but it can never have you in mind, our mind that is. You have taken a special place in your children’s minds and it will stay with us until we join you.
I am not sure when these letters will stop. When will my words come to a halt? I hope that you have enjoyed them. Each word, each letter is filled with my love for you. In the sentences of each letter is my dedication to you and the life you have lived. It is your son, pouring his soul into a thought that trickles like cold water over mountain rocks in a slow moving stream.
I keep saying I am okay. It’s as if I am trying to comfort those around me that when I lose you, I will not lose myself. I am okay but I also want to swallow the earth and then explode like a dormant volcano that came to life. I want to wreak havoc on the heavens, but I promise I will stay as calm as a tidal wave.
Love,
Chuck
