18 November 2015
six or so weeks ago, we moved. oh, not that far. seventy miles, just about directly north. i’d felt for quite a while that it was time to go. but it never quite seemed to work out. the market tanked. job offers came (and went). finally, things fell into place. we sold our home to a nice couple, who appreciated the TLC we’d tried to give it. as the moving trucks pulled away, i went to close the front door, taking one last look inside of the home we shared with mom.
i pictured her snuggled in the prairie chair with a good book, reading glasses not exactly on the bridge of her nose. a cup a coffee nearby, the fireplace burning. i saw her in the family room, watching the national news and commenting on the state of the union or firmly stating her political POV. i remembered her at the dining table, enthusiastically engaging in a strategic game of Monopoly. i thought about the times she scolded Winnie for planting herself in front of the pantry, demanding a biscuit for immediate delivery. i recalled the times that were infinitely harder: when she could no longer concentrate on her beloved books. or became frustrated when she’d forgotten where she left something, and we’d all spend an inordinate amount of time trying to find it.
i miss all of those things.
we found a smaller place (with huge picture windows, ma, just like the ones on Harwood Road) where we could feel cozy, and Elroy could live out his doggie days absorbing what are, apparently, very interesting smells and going for mature dog strolls. every now and again, a great blue heron lands in our new backyard. or flies overhead. and i know mom is with us, wherever we are.
this day and always, giving thanks for you, little bird. with gratitude and love.
18 November 2014
yesterday afternoon, i sat down in front of one of those Hallmark channel original movies (don’t judge me). the plot: expected. but unexpectedly, laugh-out-loud funny. i looked over at your photo, perched in its prominent place on the credenza, and knew how much you would have loved watching it with me. i can’t tell you how i miss those moments. when i’m out and about, i spot something totally you. a cute, cozy hoodie. one of your favorite ice cream flavors at Snow Goose. the park in Bellevue where you generously walked Winnie, the adorable bull terrier, on our first cold, rainy mornings in Washington. surprisingly (or not, because i’m a sap), i get a little teary-eyed. on that childlike level, i imagined you’d always be here. for me. for all of us. but your little student has come to learn, you are.
oh yeah, i can see a single, disapproving raised eyebrow when i’m not quite on track. a nose wrinkle when there’s bluegrass on the radio or i serve some variation on a chocolate-chip cookie (because you just may have forgotten you’ve come to adore them). that crooked smile and knee-slap when you tell a joke that you know is completely hokey. a great blue flying by much lower than one might expect.
today, like every day, little bird, i remember you. and even though you’re not sitting on the couch right next to me, i’m never home alone. love you always. see ya on the flip side.