"Sorrows to be Healed"

My mother, Nancy Lee, on the far right, my father, Frederick Reed, 
center, my daughter, Sarah, and me, soon after her birth.

Tomorrow would have been my mother's 81st birthday. This time last year we were celebrating her 80th. My sister and I saw it in her eyes; the oncoming exit. There is a haze that comes over, a sign of departure. It was a hard day, her actual birthday. I had to force her to see how she needed to move into an assisted living facility; she'd refused hired help and my sister was exhausted from her full time teaching job and rushing back and forth to check on her. So on her birthday, I had gotten my mother to agree to move, and as we sat at my sister's house, around the dining table, I noticed my mother was singing softly, purposefully, as we sang, too. I could not remember a single time we'd done that. It had always been a chattering of topics, idle tit for tat. Now, there was music, songs, quiet resolve. We ate pizza and cake, and I just felt the waves of heartache. And yet, when she had been at the facility for a few weeks, she said she liked it, made a few friends, had a college type dorm life experience, and until the Stroke came on the last day of February, four months later, she really had been coping and finding her way.

Two days ago, I saw her in my Mind's Eye. She was sitting in a big school-type auditorium with red theater curtains. She sat in the first row and turned to me, smiled, waved, and I saw her honey brown hair, short at the nape of her neck. Happy and free. She had left that sad last birthday party and was letting me know, it was all for the best.

I love you, Mother. The longing that I feel is as red and nostalgic as those curtains. The brown wood of the stage was showing me energy and grounding. Only you and I know why our story must be written. And I will finish it, Mother. Happy Birthday. Vaya con Dios.

To Nancy and Me