Threatening skies unleashed a downpour that sounded like a troupe of Irish step dancers rapping on the metal roof above my head.

Then came the thunder and lightning. I instantly flashed back to a memory of my Mother.

My brothers and sisters and I were huddled in the living room of our first house, a small three-bedroom ranch, terrified of a brutal thunderstorm parked over our heads. My Mother was doing her best to keep us calm in spite of her own fear.

“Don’t worry, kids,” she explained, sneaking glances out the window, “it’s just God bowling. Let’s see if we can hear the pins being knocked down.”

It’s funny how a memory from the past, something you haven’t thought of in decades, can visit at just the right moment. Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of my Mother’s death, and when I think about what I miss most, it’s the way she always seemed to say the right thing at the right time. In spite of being a fairly anxious woman, if one of us was in trouble and needed encouragement and support, we could count on her to put her fear aside and show up with the words we needed to hear.

Strange that it’s been a whole year since her death. Seems like a few short months ago. By now, having lived through many losses, I’m beginning to realize that when I lose someone significant, the following year is spent in a state of suspended animation. I do what I have to do to make it through the year of firsts — the first birthday, holiday, or vacation — without them. Then, the second year brings a thaw. Frozen feelings start to melt, giving me a chance to slowly integrate the loss into my life.

This is the blessing of the wisdom years. We learn that we can survive great loss because we have. But it still sucks. Loving others — including our beloved pets — while knowing that loss is inevitable, feels like living inside a twisted existential puzzle with a missing piece. And yet we go on loving because, in the end, it’s the only thing that really matters.

So today I love the rain, the dancers on the roof, and the memory of my Mother being my Mother — the woman who made loving and caring the central theme of her life.

Love,
Cheryl

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