Mon, Nov 20/17
You came to me in a dream just before I woke this morning, my last morning in your home. Thank you ...
You were wandering around, looking for your things. Instinctively, I (thought I) knew you were looking for your address book, so I quietly put it back in its spot.
I thought you were looking for your notepads and I assured you I still had them. I could put them back. You waved me off in the way we grew accustomed this past long while. "It doesn't matter" is what your gesture and your look told me without saying a word.
A tooth had broken off your partial plate. It seems to me you did speak at that point. I think you asked me if a person could really tell. You did speak. Because I remember you could speak clearly with your teeth in but one missing tooth didn't affect your speech. You were missing the same tooth Shirley is lacking.
You indicated that "it doesn't matter" and you weren't going to get it fixed, in the same manner you decided not to renew your government ID card this spring.
Even in my dream, you knew. It doesn't matter. This isn't going to last. You had let go of the small stuff but somehow I felt you found some comfort that I could put my hands on that which was important to you. Your books of notations, your list of family and friends and your pen.
Yes, I noticed you glancing over to where you always kept a pen. I had just cleared off that spot and tucked your pens into a cupboard. You always liked that counter clutter free and I wanted the next prospective home owner to appreciate the clean line of that long counter.
You didn't say much at all. You just looked around and noticed everything that was gone. Your body language told me you were accepting of this change. I still felt guilty but you gave me that scoff and that little wave of "it doesn't matter".
All the little things that mattered so much and more, as you grew weary from a body that was shutting down, didn't matter anymore.
I thought of the way I took in every little thing of yours, that Trev has found a place for, within his home and I could feel the spirit of you within me. I soaked up every little nuance as I wanted to remember it forever ...
It was the way I remember you last looking at us, as we sat together and you started to drift away from us and into a pain-free state. You were soaking us in and trying to remember us forever.
I don't want to go home, Mom. I know you are gone and you are okay with that. You don't have to put on a brave face any more. Your body, like your home, became a shell of what it was after you left us.
My head knows all of this. My heart is a little more fickle. Tears come out of nowhere at times and each time they flow, my heart heals a little more.
It's hard to let go, isn't it Mom?
I'm missing you this morning but thank you so much for coming to me in my dream. These little things mean a lot. I believe if you were sitting across the table from me, you'd recite some words from a song right about now.
All my love,