How do you say goodbye to the person who intertwined your being with the ocean’s? When their other half has already left you and you’ve never stepped foot on the sand without thinking of him, of them, now both gone.
How long can you avoid facing that the Sunday’s at the beach, which were replaced by Sunday long distance phone calls will never happen again. How do you come to terms with the years you resented her for the very same reason you love her now. For faith, for prayer, for meditation, all irrevocably intertwined in all aspects of my life even when I didn’t want them to, forever the strongest part of me now.
How do I face being alone again to let what happened sink in, and understand that being 7,840 miles away days before she left could only be made okay by the memories of all of her own trips, with her father, with her husband, with her kids.
That one day, me at 80 will show those same pictures to family members and think back in a way I can’t grasp now, at the fullness of my life. At the fullness of her life. How do I stop the bitter sweet heartache watching my mother hurt and love so much at the same time next to her tiny granddaughter – making memories that will echo 30 years from now. The way my childhood memories echo alongside her.
Him, and her, always together, holding hands until the end, and me in the middle tagging along to everything, falling asleep at the dinner table.
I hope you are together again.