six years

Six years ago a man was hunting—not for fish or flying creatures—but for a rare but beautiful type of fungus—the elusive morel mushroom. Six years ago down on his hands and knees, pushing back and across a thousand Freddies, that man would bump into something indeed rare and beautiful, but IT would be a SHE and she was not what HE was looking for; not at all. But I was, looking that is.

Six years ago we lay the questions to rest. The hope, it died last. The next chapter of the book was well underway and six years ago feels like a thousand, maybe more.

“Well at least you have closure” is what people say most often in response to this tale. As if closure ever made it all better, tying life and love and heartache into some nifty mess-less  beginning and end all wrapped up package. I remember begging my first boyfriend too, “just get together with me one last time, so I can get closure.” Yeah that’s what I wanted, closure. Right. You know what I wanted—then and now? A hug.

My mom was 5 foot nothin’ with an embrace more fierce than a black bear feeding her cub. Her hair was long and full. Most days I can still see her, wrapped up in curlers—hot, foam, rags or velcro. With a tiny mirror and a huge makeup bag, sitting at the counter, L’Oreal number 620—mica, back and forth across her lips, pucker.

Today my hair is wrapped up in curlers, and today, like every other day, I miss her.


5 thoughts on “six years

  1. My dear friend and first true friend who saw the beauty inside of people, even when they only let their ugliness show through – I am so sorry you grieve for your Mom because she should be here, laughing at your gift of humor and relishing in those moments where your twinkle and glint in those beautiful eyes, makes us wonder what you will be up to next.

    I remember hearing your voice after so many years apart, tell me of the loss and found of your Mom and not being able to breathe because the hurt was still palpable on your inflections and there was nothing to do but just listen.

    Here I am again, reading your beautiful words, floating on a page and yet, piercing my soul with thoughts and wonderment of what my child might say if I faced the same fate. What gifts I have embedded in their psyche of moments, everyday musings that whey would hold onto. I also wonder what I would wish for them. What I hope they would always remember, pray they only forget and hold onto forever when the tears fall without my touch able to comfort.

    Ya know what Rach?

    I would wish them love. Love from a person who knows them better than a beloved book. Love from a group of friends that would care to know their failings and their successes and support them all the same. I would wish them peace in their life and to lay down at night knowing they made a difference that day.

    I know you have these gifts and I cannot help but to think she has guided you in the discoveries that brighten your path.

    So my friend, I cannot do enough, say enough or love enough to make this hurt go away because it is an impossible feat. There is an ache left in your soul when a person that close passes away and it may subside at times, hide at moments but it never disappears. I think those aches are hugs from afar, reminders of who has loved you most and taught you to love equally in return. So I am sorry your aches hurt, not sorry you were loved enough to ache.

    I will be thinking of you and your family today and always.

  2. Closure = No such thing. It’s a step in the journey, but closure is not the finish line. Sending you love.

  3. @Alison – wise words from a soul sister who knows what she speaks of. Thank you, thank you and again, thank you.
    @ACliff xo back at you.
    @Dawn, you make a grown girl cry. I love you.
    @MB as ever, grateful.

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