Sunday, November 6, 2016

Out here on my own

Exactly one week ago we were heading back toward Portland from the Oregon Coast. It was a grey, rainy Sunday afternoon, like today. This song came on and it resonated so strongly that my sister, in the back seat behind Danny, was looking out the rain-streaked window, crying. Then I was too. Then I reached back to hold her hand.

And thought how lucky am I to have someone's hand to hold.

 

 (If there's someone nearby whose hand you can hold, do it now.)

By the line "we miss you, we love you, come on home" I was sobbing. It's been only seven weeks since we lost our mom.

The day she died was an achingly perfect sunny fall day, before the weather turned, another Sunday afternoon.  I'll always remember it because I was on the way to her on a bike.

I'll remember exactly how the sun felt, the warmth of the air on my skin, the massive peaceful sky, the beautiful valley where she lived all laid out like a painting. There is no way I could forget any part.

And from that day on, no one can say "we miss you, we love you, come on home".

There's something about a mother's love, about acceptance and understanding, about home that every single human being needs. I need someone to miss me. If anything in the world is sacred, it's this particular brand of love.

Utter, visceral, belonging.