My mother died. The most important, essential and primal
person in my life has died. She is not
coming back, and this private silent grief is not something that can be
understood unless you, too, are part of the Adult Orphan Club. Don’t ask me how I am: I’m horrible, and it is ridiculous to expect
a different answer. Many of you have not
said anything, acted as if nothing happened, handled it badly, or acted as if I
should be better now. Let me let you in
on my truth: I will never be better and
I am shaky all the time.
So if you don’t know what to say,
don’t say anything: instead hug me when
you see me. Whisper “I am so
sorry” in my ear. Grasp my hand, leave
cookies on my porch, send me flowers, a card, or a text checking in. Come over
and help me paint new color on my walls, mulch the garden, sit quietly with me
over tea, and most importantly, let me cry if I suddenly need to. Don’t try to comfort me. You can’t.
If I talk about her, listen. Ask
about her occasionally, but don’t be upset if I have tears running down my face
as I tell you. Mostly, understand when I don’t want to talk, or be around
people, even you, at least for now.
In short, there are a lot of ways
to tell me that you love me, without having to uncomfortably address my
mother’s death. Say it any way you know
how. Trust me, I can hear you. I will be
listening. But don’t do nothing.
And when I get to where I can
emerge, be patient with me. On the day I get married, tell me she would be
proud. When I publish my first book,
know that I will set one aside for her, even though it will never be read. Maybe one day I will have a whole shelf of
books that she will never read, yet there they will be. Daffodils and narcissus will bloom every year
and every year I will tell you they are her favorites, and the story of the
terra cotta pots. Nod as if you have
never heard me say that before. I will
show you the picture of her on her trike when she was four. Admire it as if you have never seen it
before. Tell me she was beautiful.
Because she was.
