how can i get some of that faith she had? that belief? our texts come more often now. paragraphs weighed down with a heaviness that is hard to perceive. we share sentences of support, reassurance, confessions of vulnerability.
i need to spend more time in nature conversing with the trees. that’s where her faith is stored. he reminds me of this, and that i can tap into it outside with my eyes and my camera and my heart.
“i’ll still believe. though there’s cracks, you’ll see. when i’m on my knees i’ll still believe. when i’ve hit the ground. neither lost nor found. if you believe in me, i’ll still believe.”
there’s something about motherless that leaves you feeling unseen. a mother’s eye sees all. and part of me wishes she’d give her spirit back to the air around us so we can take from it when we need it. that mother love… i need it.
i’m six years old in my black patent leather mary janes and ruffled anklet socks, on the way to sunday school. i’m eight years old in ripped jeans and red keds, kicking at the dirt around me. my stubbornness stirs up a dust cloud. i don’t want to write my mother’s obituary. i’m cursed with the words. her superstitions are my own. and i push away the pen and paper, worrying that they hold too much power. i don’t want to write my mother’s obituary… i want to go outside and play. i’m eight years old, i want to climb trees and laugh with my friends. i want to go bike riding just to harness that freedom of wind in tangled uncombed hair.
i speak to her hospice nurse on the phone, 670 miles away. “comfort and dignity” she tells me. it’s what this life has come to. i repeat it like a mantra. like a final goodbye.
i wonder what her spirit will feel like when her body releases her back to the universe.