It is Finished

Two months off - it seems like a long time and not long enough. But I’ve finished writing “Smoke Over Bridgeport” and will begin to post on 07/17 after I finish one last round of edits. It will post every other week from there until the story ends. For now, Tuesday stories and daily stories will remain on hold.

I wish grief worked on our own timeline, but it doesn’t. And while I try to push through my writing block the best I’ve managed to do is begrudgingly finish “Smoke” and continue my journaling practice.

The loss of a parent is hard and adjusting to life with both parents gone is even harder.

It took awhile for me to be able to write after my mom passed and when it did happen I wrote a lot about her passing and not a lot of fiction. So, I share this story with you today. Grief does weird things…

We sat in the living room, laughing over how funny it would be to dress up the urn with little duck costumes, like people used to dress up those little garden cement ducks.

“What about one last selfie with Mom? But it’s only us with her urn?”

Black humor was the only way my family knew how to deal with someone passing. Losing the matriarch of the family was no exception.

In this room there was laughter and some tears, but it was lively. People were animated, gesturing wildly as they spoke under the bright lights. The TV ran Fox News at almost full volume in the background because Dad never watched anything but Fox News. Various food containers lay around from shared meals—cleaning wasn’t at the top of our list of priorities.

Dad sat in his wheelchair, not even facing the TV. Thelma had just picked up the mail. She had a stack, as they hadn’t gone through it in days.

She paused when she found a notebook-sized envelope.

“It’s a letter from hospice,” she said, surprised.

Thelma had been Mom’s main caretaker, up till now she’d done everything she could to not be surprised by anything that was happening. She opened it, and out slid three envelopes and a smallish painting, the size of a notebook page.

The notes were labeled with names: John (my dad), Thelma, and Noah. The painting looked like something a five-year-old would paint.

“We thought you would want this. Your mom painted it. She also wrote these letters; she did not get to finish writing to everyone,” Thelma read out loud, her voice getting thick with tears.

Letters to three more kids and two grand-kids were missing from that pile. I didn’t have one either, but it was obvious the painting was meant for me.

Mom had been in and out of lucidity for most of her five months of hospice. When she’d asked me for a picture of my cats so she could paint them, I’d shrugged it off, thinking it was her addled brain. Turns out she was painting a picture of my cats. It was a messy painting, but you could make out what she was trying to do. It wasn’t signed. She never signed a painting until it was finished. It was both heartbreaking and perfect.

“Do we open the letters now or wait ’til she passes?” Thelma asked.

“We wait,” Dad said resolutely.

We all nodded in agreement, tears in our eyes, knowing it wouldn’t be that long until we read them. She handed me the painting.

I’d always loved my mom’s paintings, though she hadn’t painted in years. Her hands had become crippled from arthritis and the lingering effects of past cancer treatments. But what I held was a treasure.

The living room had become heavy with grief. It wouldn’t last long.

“Do you think we should dress her up in themes each month or do whatever we want?”

They were back on decorating the urn as a duck again.

“I need to use the restroom,” I said, excusing myself.

It was partially to compose myself. I wasn’t quite ready to smile about duck costumes. I placed the painting down delicately, then headed to the other side of the house.

From here, I could also see the family room, where the hospice bed was dimly lit. The only sounds were the oxygen machine and the soft moans Mom always made when she slept. It was peaceful, yet the weight of impending death lingered.

I had vowed never to enter her room by myself. Facing oncoming death alone was something I feared; I didn’t want to be the one to find her. This had happened to me before when my grandma died when I was twelve. I refused to have that experience twice.

But something nudged me forward. Somehow, I knew this was the only moment I would have. I had never planned on a big goodbye to my mom—we’d been saying goodbye as a family for five months. I was good.

I stood for a moment, stuck between two worlds. I could still hear loud voices from the other room. I briefly heard words about ashes and a BBQ. I shook my head. I didn’t want to know.

I chose my quest and stepped quietly into the darkened room. I made my way to the side of her bed. It was like walking on sacred ground, and I feared anything too loud would alert the other room. I wanted this moment for me. This moment I’d been so afraid of since the start.

I remembered once commenting on how different a dying person looked. They’d been skinny and gaunt. The family, however, had thought the person looked good. Mom once told me that when a loved one is dying, family members don’t see them as they are but as they remember them.

I thought about that now as I looked down at her. I knew she had lost weight. She was an odd shade of yellow. But all I saw was my mom. She let out small moans, her eyes half-open but unfocused. Some part of me knew this was my last shot. If I wanted a chance to say goodbye in private, this was it.

I opened my mouth, and the only words that came out were a whispered, “I love you.”

I took a deep breath, trying not to break down sobbing.

She moaned. I felt like she heard me, like that was her saying it back. It would have to last me forever. There would be no other times to tell her I loved her while she was living.

I took deep breaths and readied myself. Then, I walked toward the door—away from the rhythmic hiss of the oxygen machine, away from the dim light, away from death’s quiet approach.

It was time to return to the living room.

Mary M.