The Visit

The room is crowded. I’m in some sort of receiving line, standing on a dais or stage. I greet people as they come by – shaking hands, placing a hand on a shoulder here, kissing a cheek there.

You walk up to me, next in line. I’ve never seen you here before. You don’t quite look like yourself, but there’s no doubt it’s you. You look like a cross between Sophia on Golden Girls and Granny Clampett. I chuckle at the realization that there really was a resemblance – a bit in looks, but mostly in feistiness.

I touch your wrinkled but soft cheek, and then wrap you in a tight embrace. You are thin and my arms go all the way around you with no trouble. I have to lean down a little. I’ve been taller than you since the 8^th grade, but you’ve shrunken even more with age.

I hold onto you tightly but gently, feeling the ribs in your back and your boney shoulder under my chin. The feeling of your arms around me, as strong and as sure as ever.

We have so much catching up to do. There is so much to tell you. So much to ask.

Emotion wells up and tears fill my eyes. I’ve missed you so much.

“Mom!” I whisper.

You dissolve in my arms.

I roll over and look at the clock. 3:48.

I close my eyes, listening to the wind and my husband’s breathing.

I try to go back to sleep, willing myself to reenter the dream.

Longing to see you and hold you again.

Grief Takes the Holidays

September 8, 1951

In 64 years of marriage, my parents spent only one Christmas apart. It was 1952 and my Dad was a United States Marine in Korea. They apparently didn’t want to repeat that experience. After Dad passed away suddenly on October 26, mom followed him just 51 days later on December 17.