It has been
a month of odd days since my mother died on May 16.
There was
the day in which I had two important errands to run: 1. pick up the Whidbey Coffee gift
certificates for the Sunday School teachers and youth workers, and 2. pick up
the death certificates to mail to my brother in Kentucky.
There was
the day I did my errands with her cremains in the front passenger seat. And the day I wrapped the box in brown
paper. And the hurried twenty minutes at
the post office in which I covered all tape and paper seams with brown paper
tape—hurried because I needed to pick up a prescription and drive from Freeland
to Oak Harbor for a Christian Education Team meeting.
There are
the days I operate in a gray fog of grief, still stunned that my mother is gone
and still grappling with leftover guilt.
There are the usual trips to Oak Harbor for church and music activities,
made unusual because I can’t visit her now.
There are the surreal grocery shopping stops in which I realize that
there is no longer a reason to keep a look out for her favorite cinnamon rolls
or tasty chocolate treats.
There are
the days when her magazines arrive in the mail, and loss overwhelms me. There are the walks down the driveway in
which I remember her delight in picking berries and pulling weeds. There is the relief that she did not linger
long in that final state of fearful confusion.
And there is
gratitude for having had the past five years with her, even when it was so hard
and even when all I wanted to do was run away from home or, later, from Home
Place.
I guess that
I’m not done with odd days even though today is an even one.
