~My Mother~
After death it's a scruffy-looking, overworked E.R.doctor
who speaks quiet words of
"I regret to inform you"
that is the beginning of your Mother's end.
You think you will wake up
and that it's all just a bad daydream
until you see your own father cry and fall to the ground.
After death questions appear like balloons,
creating more questions and life-changing answers.
Your children ask if their Nana went to Heaven
and what and where is this place?
....A world you hoped you'd only have to discuss
over a small hamster's death or fish.
Its the start of strangers asking you questions
"Do you want to donate your Mother's eyes or skin?"
For the life of you you cannot recall talking to her about this
or if she ever mentioned organ donation to be her wish.
As far as you try to pull yourself away
from this place of emotion to be there
and as selfless as you want to be,
you can't imagine her without those great big brown eyes
or that enormous heart with her forever.
Even if you won't see the difference
as you kiss her goodbye in her casket
you want to know she has never been separated from herself,
even one tiny part...
You answer them "No" only to spend the years later
wondering if Mom would have wanted you to say Yes instead~
After death simple things like words,
food and air
become like great big, ugly square blocks
that won't fit.
All the tears,
every single one,
are cold, wet reminders
that there are hundreds more to come
and that the time between this very breath
and your own death may be only seconds away.
After death the sight of Mom's smile curving up her gorgeous face
and the sweet sound of her laugh
which in a mere second could take you from your own misery
to joy
become jerky hiccups between hurt and hope,
heartbreak and love.
Memories wander into your mind on their own
but like shades being ripped down on a sun-drenched room
they go dark in an instant...
Yet when you sit and purposely try to pull up a memory of her
it's like trying to catch hold of the burning edge of the sun
to drag it across the sky.
What's real can't be replayed
or borrowed no matter how much you beg, promise and cry
yet what may have been plays over and over in your aching head
reminding you with its screeching
that no one and nothing will give you another second with her.
Whats left after death is many
"I'm Sorry"s, piles of sympathy cards from all over the country
and way too many possessions Mom held dear.
No one tells you what to do with her clothes
or her books
or that handwritten grocery list on the counter
which means more to you
than any piece of jewelry
or room of furniture
because it was written by her just the day before.
You will want to keep it all
yet not where you can trip over it when you are trying to live.
If you kept everything that reminded you of her
you know your house would be full with nothing but her things.
No one tells you that someone else
will decide for you what's worth it
and sell and throw the rest out.
No one tells you that to spite the promise
that you will be able to choose from her things
even a few items
what meant the most to you,
that everything will be gone in a day...
Even that bracelet you bought her when you were 7
with the gift certificate you won at the elementary school raffle
was thrown into a pile of other gold
that was pawned.
After death you will miss her till you ache.
You will remember every time you go to pick up the
phone to call her
that you will never ever again
hear her soothing, loving voice.
No one can warn you that your father,
her husband of over 30 years,
will have another stroke
that will steal whole years of the past he shared with your Mom
so he cannot share with you or his grandkids
his own memories of her.
He can't simply talk about her without crying.
After death you will do what you know best-
what you think your Mom would love-
You will painstakingly write Mom a long, loving Eulogy
full of memories of her red red lipstick
and her wonderful humor.
To spite how bad it hurts
through breathless words and tears
you will read it in front of hundreds of mourners.
Still, while everyone listens crying and nodding,
you wonder if the person you wrote it for
even knows you did it.
After death you really question God
and is there a Heaven
because now it matters.
All that's left
is the remnants of what ifs
intermingled with the left over things you wanted to say
and hope that there will be a tomorrow when you can hug her
and love her again and thank her for your very life.
Still, the worst question that you will wonder-
the one that wakes you up in the middle of the night
in a cold sweat
with tears streaming down your cheeks onto your pillow
is how can you make sure that you, too,
won't leave your own children
at only 57,
like a stolen blooming flower?
How can you keep them from feeling lost and aching this way?
How can you reassure them that you felt loved
and that its all going to be okay
again someday?
After death there are lives trying to relearn
how to live.
Yet does anyone really ever figure it out?
Only after death will we know.
Stacy J. Roosa
who speaks quiet words of
"I regret to inform you"
that is the beginning of your Mother's end.
You think you will wake up
and that it's all just a bad daydream
until you see your own father cry and fall to the ground.
After death questions appear like balloons,
creating more questions and life-changing answers.
Your children ask if their Nana went to Heaven
and what and where is this place?
....A world you hoped you'd only have to discuss
over a small hamster's death or fish.
Its the start of strangers asking you questions
"Do you want to donate your Mother's eyes or skin?"
For the life of you you cannot recall talking to her about this
or if she ever mentioned organ donation to be her wish.
As far as you try to pull yourself away
from this place of emotion to be there
and as selfless as you want to be,
you can't imagine her without those great big brown eyes
or that enormous heart with her forever.
Even if you won't see the difference
as you kiss her goodbye in her casket
you want to know she has never been separated from herself,
even one tiny part...
You answer them "No" only to spend the years later
wondering if Mom would have wanted you to say Yes instead~
After death simple things like words,
food and air
become like great big, ugly square blocks
that won't fit.
All the tears,
every single one,
are cold, wet reminders
that there are hundreds more to come
and that the time between this very breath
and your own death may be only seconds away.
After death the sight of Mom's smile curving up her gorgeous face
and the sweet sound of her laugh
which in a mere second could take you from your own misery
to joy
become jerky hiccups between hurt and hope,
heartbreak and love.
Memories wander into your mind on their own
but like shades being ripped down on a sun-drenched room
they go dark in an instant...
Yet when you sit and purposely try to pull up a memory of her
it's like trying to catch hold of the burning edge of the sun
to drag it across the sky.
What's real can't be replayed
or borrowed no matter how much you beg, promise and cry
yet what may have been plays over and over in your aching head
reminding you with its screeching
that no one and nothing will give you another second with her.
Whats left after death is many
"I'm Sorry"s, piles of sympathy cards from all over the country
and way too many possessions Mom held dear.
No one tells you what to do with her clothes
or her books
or that handwritten grocery list on the counter
which means more to you
than any piece of jewelry
or room of furniture
because it was written by her just the day before.
You will want to keep it all
yet not where you can trip over it when you are trying to live.
If you kept everything that reminded you of her
you know your house would be full with nothing but her things.
No one tells you that someone else
will decide for you what's worth it
and sell and throw the rest out.
No one tells you that to spite the promise
that you will be able to choose from her things
even a few items
what meant the most to you,
that everything will be gone in a day...
Even that bracelet you bought her when you were 7
with the gift certificate you won at the elementary school raffle
was thrown into a pile of other gold
that was pawned.
After death you will miss her till you ache.
You will remember every time you go to pick up the
phone to call her
that you will never ever again
hear her soothing, loving voice.
No one can warn you that your father,
her husband of over 30 years,
will have another stroke
that will steal whole years of the past he shared with your Mom
so he cannot share with you or his grandkids
his own memories of her.
He can't simply talk about her without crying.
After death you will do what you know best-
what you think your Mom would love-
You will painstakingly write Mom a long, loving Eulogy
full of memories of her red red lipstick
and her wonderful humor.
To spite how bad it hurts
through breathless words and tears
you will read it in front of hundreds of mourners.
Still, while everyone listens crying and nodding,
you wonder if the person you wrote it for
even knows you did it.
After death you really question God
and is there a Heaven
because now it matters.
All that's left
is the remnants of what ifs
intermingled with the left over things you wanted to say
and hope that there will be a tomorrow when you can hug her
and love her again and thank her for your very life.
Still, the worst question that you will wonder-
the one that wakes you up in the middle of the night
in a cold sweat
with tears streaming down your cheeks onto your pillow
is how can you make sure that you, too,
won't leave your own children
at only 57,
like a stolen blooming flower?
How can you keep them from feeling lost and aching this way?
How can you reassure them that you felt loved
and that its all going to be okay
again someday?
After death there are lives trying to relearn
how to live.
Yet does anyone really ever figure it out?
Only after death will we know.
Stacy J. Roosa
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