Mother

I finished sorting through one of the boxes on my dining room floor today.  My friend's vast collection of stationary and notecards is now incorporated into my own.

I stopped at the cemetery on the way to her house, having not been there since the funeral.  I said hello.  I told her we missed her.  I asked her to show me what she might like me to have, and to be present with us as we sorted through the memories.

I thought there would only be her books, many of which I knew would mirror those on my own shelves.  I was bittersweetly thrilled to find waiting for me an entire box of stationary.  I knew she shared my love of sending meaningful, handwritten notecards, having received many from her over the years, but I didn't know she had a collection.  I also got to keep the "Ways of Being" cards from her life coaching practice, a colorful crocheted book bag I'd seen her carry on occasion, and a second box overflowing with books, several of which have been on my "to read" list for years.

And so, I don't doubt for a second that my friend heard my request out in the sunlight and falling leaves of First Lutheran Cemetery.  Now, in baby steps, half a box at a time, I make room for a little more of her presence throughout my home.

We received another precious gift as her daughter sat on the living room floor to look on with me.  I drew from the box a familiar package, tied with a deep green raffia ribbon.  My own collection is tied with the same and embossed with dragonflies; this one was embossed with a simple "J."  I turned it on its side to read the familiar label: "Il Papiro."  I smiled at Jillian and said, "Do you remember the gelateria near the Pantheon, where we went for ice cream in Rome?" She lit up in recognition: "The place that had all the flavors!"

Thank you thank you, she remembers.  "Do you also remember the writing shop near there, where your mom was so excited to take me?"  She looked a little less certain but nodded.

We talked about that day:  the 30-some flavors, the pigeons and masked horses in the piazza, the narrow alleys full of shops, memories that are all the more invaluable now.  I told her that thanks to her mom, I already have my gorgeous, delicate stationary from Italy, and that after all, my name begins with an A, not with a J as hers does, and as did her mother's preferred name.  Though she'd already placed it in the box for others to look through, she decided to keep it for herself.

She danced through the yard with me as I carried boxes to my car.  After the last, she wrapped her arms around my waist as we sauntered slowly back toward the house.  I can't seem to hug her enough, and I think it's the both of us that need it.  I asked how her heart was, and we agreed that although it was a lovely, precious thing to have pieces of her mother's life to keep, we wished so very deeply that she were still here to keep them for herself.

I've spent many months this year coming to accept the idea that I may not ever meet a life's partner of my own, and even if I do, I may never be a mother.  Some days, and more of the days as time passes, I approach a sad sort of peace about releasing that part of my future.  It seems, though, that God teases me, placing me in the path of several massively pregnant women, a crying baby in the lobby outside my classroom, obstetric and neonatal patients, or, for example, an assigned chapter last week on genes, prenatal development, and all the negative statistics for women (and men as well) who become parents after the age of 35 - which, somehow and I swear impossibly, is six months away for me.  I accept my reality but the ache of losing that dream haunts me.

As Jillian and I walked, I remembered the moment in Sharon's hospital room when I told her I wouldn't forget her daughter.  It was a rare look of true relief on her face - a relief of the heart instead of a relief induced only by medication.  Today, my first thought was that I couldn't be old enough to be mother to an eleven-year old, and then I realized that I myself could have had a child turning twelve this Christmas.  I remembered that Sharon gave birth to this precious girl when she was 38.

As we climbed the deck, talking about her upcoming dance recital, the flute she's learning to play, her recent haircut, and new iPad apps, I just wanted to stop, wrap her up in my arms and protect her from all the heartache this past year has brought us.  I wanted to cry for the both of us, to take her hurt and bear it for her.  I wanted to make sure she has warm meals, a safe, clean bed, fun times, someone to give her makeup advice, a grown-up woman to always talk to, and hope for the future.  She has all these things in her papa and her aunties, of course, but family is not always as much about blood as it is about love and taking care of each other.  As we came back inside, as she asked if I really had to go, as I realized how much I wanted to stay, I had the most powerful thought:

Maybe I already am a mother.

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Post-script:   Speaking of mothers, I've just realized that the clock has turned since I began writing and it is now my own mother's 60th birthday.  Speaking of appreciating mothers, I remember that I've just attended the life celebration of a friend's parents today, lost to us in a canoe accident last weekend.

Happy birthday Mama.  I'm so grateful that I still have you.