Waiting

I wasn't sure what the anniversary of Mom's death was going to feel like. I felt it approaching; was viscerally aware of it as the days and minutes ticked by. I waited for a feeling; I waited for emotion. I waited and waited for something to come washing over me.

It didn't come.

I woke up on July 31 the same way I wake up every day; reluctantly. I've always been a night owl and mornings simply are not my thing. I opened my eyes to a regular day, and filled up the minutes doing regular things and just waited for something terrible to come rushing in.

It didn't come.

Dad and I and John all checked in with each other, carefully, carefully. I waited to feel the air leave my chest and my heart to feel that familiar squeeze and I waited for the broken feeling that I was sure was coming.

It didn't come.

I was careful to hold the day close to me; I was careful not to mention it or say words out loud, fearful that Despair was lurking around the corner and listening for me to call him.

But he didn't come.

Instead, friends stopped by to say hello, and the kids splashed on the beach and bounced on the trampoline all day. We grilled out and ate good food and laughed with each other.

Instead, I opened a lovely message from a single aunt. Just one of Mom's nine remaining siblings who let me know that Mom was remembered, that she was loved, and that she was missed. I opened that perfect message and Despair was nowhere to be found. Just warm love came pouring out, over my fingertips, up my arms and into my heart.

Instead, one of my friends showed up in my kitchen with a candle and a card and a letter. She'd remembered every time she met my mom; she detailed all their conversations and listed every interaction, reminding me that Mom was more than a memory, but a real person who loved me. I was touched beyond belief by that gesture; I don't think I've ever been as good a friend to anyone as this friend has been to me. I don't deserve it, I know, and I am so grateful for her.

The day wound down and everyone tumbled off to bed, leaving me to watch the day recede into darkness. I still felt wary, still felt cautious, still waiting waiting waiting for the thing that I was sure was still coming. There were hours, hours still to endure in the quiet of the evening, anticipating with dread what was almost certainly coming.

Around nine o-clock, the house went quiet and a car pulled up out front. A third blessing got out of it with a blanket and a beer. Curled up on the beach chairs, I toasted my mom with maybe the only person I know who could relate to me on this particular level. We sat on those chairs until 2am. She saw me safely into the next day and made sure I crossed effortlessly over. We watched the moon come up, and the stars come out. We cried a little bit and we talked a little bit and we laughed a whole lot. We woke up the neighbor and we were nearly attacked by the local mink who wasn't expecting us to inhabit the beach at that hour.

We breathed deeply in the cool night air. I let memories float in the air and drift over my skin, retelling some good things and some hard things and giving a name to the feeling I'd felt all day, safely anchored by the bonds of this golden friendship, which has come to mean so much to me.

All through Mom's illness I reminded myself that Mom knew how to do hard things. She taught me how to do the hard things, and how to survive them when they came. I kept expecting today to be one of those hard things. I was waiting for it, bracing for it. I did it, Mom. I'm doing it. The hardest thing, every day.