Okay, I promise. This is the last blog for a while about my mother. I left her this morning, coming to her bedside to kiss her goodbye. I touched her forehead, as this poem suggests, and smiled all that I could so that she would feel less alone. But I wonder about my own loneliness, now 600 miles from her? In the dance of daughters and mothers, who abandoned whom first, and ever again and again?
My mother in her dementa is strange, mute, difficult and sometimes unmanageble, but in this sleepless night I see her as a beautiful child of this world. I recall her good years before she began to slip away how we went for walks, upon walks. I would help her put on her coat, wishing her to feel the warmth in my heart. In those days I never, ever considered that I would lose her in this way.
I suppose she isn't lost really, for she is my own dear love sorrow. Ever with me, achingly so.
I think I'll go for a walk with her as soon as the morning light lessens this current darkness. Who knows then what amazing things may happen - a growth in love sorrow for tomorrow and for all beings.
Who or what is your love sorrow?