I was at a ceremony for my husband’s late grandmother last week and I always feel compelled to visit my mother’s grave whenever I’m at the cemetery. I don’t know why. We are really not a ‘visit the grave’ kind of family. As my grandmother used to say “dead is dead.” I confirmed this too on my visit, as my mother’s plot came into sight. Yup, still there, I thought.
I always feel awkward kneeling down in front of my mother’s stone, like I’m supposed to make a profound statement or something. I never really know what to say though. I usually get her caught up on things: this time I told her how sweet her grandchildren are and then I apologized for leaving my legal practice. I told her I’m trying to figure things out and that I love her very much.
I know others take comfort in visiting lost loved ones, but it doesn’t really do much for me. I don’t believe my mom is really there. My mom isn’t anywhere. I don’t feel like my own thoughts and memories bring forth her presence in any tangible way. I loathed when people who, leading up to my wedding, told me my mother would be there when I tried on my dress or that she was watching our ceremony with delight. I hate that kind of talk. No, my mom did not come to any dress fitting, nor did she dance at my wedding. How could she? She was dead.
This realist approach makes Mothers Day very lonely. A part of me wishes I believed in it all. I wish I could believe my mother was in some afterlife sipping coffee with Mordecai Richler or Jackie Kennedy, ready to be summoned at a moment’s notice to give me solace or to attend an event. It would be so much easier.
Without religion or other philosophies, I don’t know where to garner comfort. They say that time heals all wounds, but I haven’t found this to be the case. Time just dulls the memories so they are less raw and less available.
On my knees this time in front of my mother, a conversation I once had with her slowly surfaces. I remember sitting on her bed, a decade before she died, with my little cat Olympia, telling her how scared I was for Olympia’s death. Olympia has been with me through so much that she now feels like a part of me.
“I’ll be inconsolable when she dies,” I said, “I can’t live without her.”
“It’s not that she can be replaced,” my mom said, “but when she does go, I want you to take all that love and give it to another animal who needs it. Take it and pour it all into them. Don’t let all that love go to waste.”
I think that’s how I cope with my mother’s death. I take all the love I have for my mother, drawing it in from the tips of my fingers and the tips of my toes. I gather all the tenderness, all the warmth and all the affection spilling over from my loss. I bring it all together and give it to my husband. I give it to Olympia. I give it to my brothers and their families, my father and my extended family. I give it to my friends and all the people I care for, collecting even more people as I go.
Standing up, I brush the dirt off my knees, take my husband’s hand and walk away.
Utterly beautiful. I just hope you save some of that love you have for yourself.
Your grandmother was right, Wendy–dead is dead. I, too, have little use for visiting graves, aside from their historical value. And no, your mother didn’t come to your dress fittings. But her influence was there; it always will be. To quote the closing lines of one of my scripts:
But does a child ever
truly say good-bye to a parent? I
think not. Because a child is the
creation of its parents. Everything
that I am or that I do is because of
that part of my parents that resides
within me. And so, even though their
ashes are now part of the earth from
which they came, my parents live on.
They live on in me, in my sister, in
our children, and in the generations
not yet born. Forever.
Absolutely beautiful.
One of your best.
While I, too, find minimal meaning in visiting my parents’ graves, it’s for a very different reason. I absolutely agree they’re not there. But I don’t agree they’re nowhere. I am a schizophrenic theist who finds all the rational existential arguments compelling, but my default is a pretty firm belief that there is much we don’t undertand, for which we assign two insufficient words: soul and God. And so, I am able to have daily dialogues with my parents and with the Big Man (or Woman). And I dont even have to get my pants dirty.
I was feeling guilty that I could not find it in myself to go to the cemetery tomorrow. I feel better now. Well said, beautifully written. I too will follow your mother’s advice and give that love to someone else who needs it tomorrow, and always….
I just lost my mother last week and we buried her two days ago. I keep wondering where she is. I just want to know what happens to all the memories, the things she said, her pain, her love, her losses, her triumphs…all the experiences of her life. Do they just vaporize? Is it as though they never happened?
No, you are right…they live on in us. She had a material effect on the person I became as I have on my children and so on down the line. I hope there’s a heaven and that she’s there but, if there isn’t, then I’m honored to carry her legacy, her beliefs and her standards forward into future generations. I have decided to be the best I can be both to honor her wishes for me and to show the world that she was a truly great mother as witnessed by the daughter she raised.