Winter, Seeds and Homes

Today marks three weeks since my mother died. The evening of the funeral was tense and sad, and ended with a dramatic family blowout. We all survived that to endure a night full of major thunderstorms with golf ball-sized hail and tornadoes in the next county as a massive cold front moved in. 40 degrees colder, the next morning we left for home, driving into snow.

Yesterday was a big, strange, sad day for me. I found my own deep sadness creeping up on me every time I tried to think or work. My inability to quietly and easily meet other people's real needs was maddening and confusing. I was not able to partition them off until later; they were there, now, and yet I still had to parent and make dinner, still had to somehow talk politely to my children while they yelled at each other all. day. long.

In bed, late, alone, I talked to my mom. I told her all my little sadnesses. I apologized for things I wasn't really responsible for. I cried when my hands remembered carefully lifting her body as I picked her up to help her onto the toilet. I cried when I still smelled her skin.

I wear her winter coat.

This morning I cried, grieving the kind of family affection I didn't know was possible until I created it with Chris. I didn't know, and I wished I could have known. An idealized fantasy of involved grandparents, still physically able to baby sit and take children on trips to the theater, or help build a shed. I cried for all the things my children missed, and that I won't be able to give them.

So I gave in, and went outside to share my grief with the trees and snow. I found seeds and homes:  the things we all become and make, together.