When I think of the days of the week, or the months of the year, I picture each one in their own particular color. I don’t know how this happened, but it’s been a part of the way I see the world (or at least days and months) for as long as I can remember. Sundays are white. Mondays are sort of a brownish black. Tuesdays are white, but a little more creamy white than the stark white of Sunday. Wednesdays are a deep blue/black, followed by a muddy burgundy of Thursdays. Fridays are green, like dollar bills and Saturdays are a muted red. And in case you’re wondering, I have no idea what the colors mean. I won’t bore you with the colors of the months, but suffice it to say that we left the bluish month of July and were ushered into the pale golden month of August. Golden, like the spent dry grasses that line the California highways this time of year. August is hot, dry and arid, almost desert-like, reflecting the state of my soul. There is a strange familiarity in this desert. A comfortable discomfort. An anticipation of things coming to an end before they begin.
August 3, 2020. It was a Monday, the color of dark brown, and it slithered in and I waited. I waited for the wave of sorrow to pull me under as my body remembered the events from a year ago. I saw them, not in color, but rather felt them unfolding in slow motion as if I were trying to wade into the shallows of a marshland filled with molasses. I was poised to be undone, but the day proceeded like any other workday. And then my doorbell rang. I answered it thinking it was another Amazon delivery, but instead it was my neighbor’s face hidden behind a sunny bouquet of golden sunflowers, white alstroemeria and deep green ferns. “For you, from us. In remembrance of your mom.” I was touched and a little stunned.
In remembrance…What a gift it is to remember and to be remembered.
I do remember the last few days, then hours and finally minutes as the life breath left my mama’s body and she became still under that blue cotton sheet. I remember the feel of my daughter’s body against mine as she encircled me with her arms, sharing in the quiet stillness of that moment. I remember the pastor coming to send my mama off with words of comfort and surety. I remember tidying up the room, while waiting for the mortuary to arrive and leaving quickly once they did. I remember the kind words spilling out all around me for days and weeks.
And recently, when I was in need of words of consolation, a good friend sent me these,
“I want you to know that I will recognize the anniversary of your Mama’s death (August 3rd), which really isn’t a death, since she is alive in Christ and has a full memory of you, your family, your brothers, and a full life (now eternal life) with all its memories and joys.”
And so I do remember, and am grateful for a faith tradition that upholds the fact that my mama sees me–all of me and knows and loves me deeply. That never changes. I am comforted by the reality that she stands in the presence of Christ praying, remembering, nudging and encouraging me to be that person she sees–the person God intended me to be all along.
“Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!” (Mark 9: 24b).
I write this in honor of faithful, kind, wise women who died this past year. Each one has shaped me in their own unique, beautiful way and I am filled with gratitude: my mama (of course!), Zoe, Irene, Karla.
A little poem I came across which spoke to me in my grief….
The Unbroken
There is a brokenness
out of which comes the unbroken,
a shatteredness
out of which blooms the unshatterable. There is a sorrow
beyond all grief which leads to joy and a fragility
out of whose depths emerges strength.
There is a hollow space too vast for words
through which we pass with each loss,
out of whose darkness we are sanctioned into being. There is a cry deeper than all sound
whose serrated edges cut the heart
as we break open
to the place inside which is unbreakable
and whole while learning to sing.
By © Rashani Réa. (Poet note: “A poem I wrote in 1991, after the 5th death in my family.”)
