(UNREVISED)::still gotta type out the revised..::
I watched the masses of black figures, in the form of people, shift past me, murmuring in hushed voices to me as though I was the one who was dead, my face expressionless, my eyes turning to stare out of our living room window. The sky was a steely, cold grayish blue. Of course, this was better than one of those horrible sunny days that always seemed to spring up during funerals. I couldn’t possibly bear to know the sun would still shine; couldn’t bring myself to believe that the warm beams of light would hit my skin, that they would warm me in just the same way as always, as if things were the same. But they weren’t, and never again would they be, because unlike my father, unlike my eight year-old sister, and unlike the countless friends and mourners, I knew this was true. I knew that she was gone. I couldn’t quite grip the thought yet… but yes, I knew that she would never be there to give me a good night’s kiss, or hug. Never again cook her famous Christmas dinners; her Easter-egg hunts would forever more drift in memory, until those memories, too, faded away from my life.
My mother was a fantastic person. She would never miss one band concert, no matter how much her boss scolded her afterwords. She always knew what to say, although I’m not sure how, perhaps it was one of those things that females aquire once they are greeted into motherhood. She never let anyone push me around- on the contrary, I can name about ten incidents when she would phone up each of my friends just so our arguments would be solved. I was frustrated at her interference then. I’m not now.
Sometimes I wish I had agreed to going into that car on that fateful day. I wish I had stood her up to her offer; wish I hadn’t insisted on her not being late. “I can give you a ride this morning, hun,” my mother had insisted while putting on one of her earrings. “You’ll catch cold if you go out into this storm.” She made a faint gesture with her head towards the window- the same window I was staring out of, in fact. It was pouring rain that day, with severe wind warnings.
“No mom, you’ll be late. Besides, I still have to brush my teeth and comb my hair, let alone pick out an outfit!” My words echoed endlessly in my mind, torturing me with that reproachful look she gave me as she studied my matted hair. I knew she could smell the putrid morning breath of mine, even from two feet away.
In the end, she had reluctantly agreed, and insisted prefusely on me bringing my maroon umbrella along on my ten block journey to the eleventh grade. I nodded, frustration peircing my mind because she was over protective. Because she thought I was a baby, because she thought I couldn’t even manage a stupid thing like suspending a piece of cloth over my head to protect my less-than-perfect hair from the November rain.
The simple fact was that I couldn’t do any of the normal things without her. She was utterly important to my life, and somehow I was so stupidly stubborn that I couldn’t even see that until it was too late- until she was gone.A silent tear rolled down my cheek as I continued to stare up at the cold gray clouds. They weren’t rain clouds; they were clouds that threatened soft, feathery flakes of white crisp snow. My mother’s favorite type of weather, I thought bitterly.
I had watched her crouch down to avoid hitting her head on the doorway of the red Moterolla, graceful movements always evident. Somehow I hadn’t noticed then how beautiful she was. She started up the car, her gaze shifting from the steering wheel were her two hands rested, up at me, standing in my bedroom window. Sending me a small smile and a wave, she backed out into the treacherous road, almost completely disapearing under a fresh sheet of heavy rain. God, how I wish I had stopped her.
My nightmares had been confirmed as the police man’s voice answered me on the telephone. He had that voice on, you know, the one doctors use when you’re about to receive some horrible news about what went wrong on the operating table. The police man’s every syllable held a terrible solumn foreboding. His words drifted in one ear and out the other as I clutched, mortified, to the plastic cream coloured phone; as he made up useless claims and excuses as to why the accident had happened.
“There was alcohol involved… slick roads… heavy rain… stop sign invisible…” these were the few words I managed to catch. I slammed the phone back down onto the receiver, and clutched my heart, dashing to the bathroom to throw up.
To add the the gut-wrenching pain of losing the one I loved most in the world, my friends had decided not to call me. They had decided not to shower me in comfort, to not to console my aching soul. Of course, if I think about it now, what could they have possibly said to make it go away? If anything, confused words of how ‘sorry they were for me’ could only make things terribly worse. So there I was, socially isolated, motherless, and utterly enveloped in cold.
Still I sat, my spine digging uncomfortably into the red satin of the chairs’ back that I was sitting on. It was my mother’s chair; she had received it as a gift from my father for her birthday the previous year. She would have been forty-two in three days after her very funeral. Now my eyes left the cold chill of mid-day, gazing stonily at the priest who stood beside my mothers casket, closed because they could never fully mend her broken body. It made me sick just to think of her, dead, deep underground and never more able to show others the beauty that was my mother. Sure, she had her stressful days, but all mothers do, as I’ve come to understand, and she was loving and warm and caring every other time. My glance darted towards aunts that were unknown to me, to friends that were nodding and clutching their hankercheifs tearfully. I sighed, deeply distressed, for no one had known the pain I still carried with me from just looking at a picture of her.
Looking at a picture made me envious of the frame that locked her so closely to the smooth glass. It made me wish that I could still clutch her so surely in my own arms, and never let her go. Never let her warmth go, never let the sweet smell of lavender that drifted about her leave my nostrils.
That was nearly a year ago. Three hundred and thirty-three days, to be exact. The yearly trip to her grave is in two days, but I won’t go; not with them, anyway. I don’t think I could take the pressure of more pity. You see, I had this tradition that somehow started with the death of one of my mother’s extremely close friend, who was like a grandfather to me.
I had learnt how to fold paper cranes just as my ‘grandfather’ lay extremely sick in his bed, and when he died, my mother and i would make trips to his grave and I would leave a single crane at the base of his nameplate. This would bring tears to her eyes, and she would cling to me, tears streaming down both of our faces as we headed down the block back to our home. Cranes symbolised freedom and new hope, and I suppose I had always hoped that this man’s soul would lift, free from the weight of earth, to heaven, so that he may forever watch over me.
Here I stand now, at my mothers grave, alone. My father isn’t home yet, and my friends and I aren’t that close anymore. They have their own lives now, and I have mine. Slowly I am beginning to allow myself to heal and slowly beginning to trust others once more. Yesterday I even let myself take the bus.
I kneel down on my mother’s grave now, my hands shoved deeply into my woolen pockets, tears streaking my face. I remember all the good times we had; the bad times have layed long forgotten. Perhaps I have locked them in a corner of my mind, refusing to believe that I had ever been mad at her. She was truly a beautiful person, and once I was a bitter, stubborn girl. Once I would never allow myself to believe anyone when they said she wasn’t gone, because I so missed the way she tucked me in at night. I was a child in a 16-year-old’s body. I had refused my family, I had refused my friends and myself, and in doing so had unwillingly refused my mother’s memory.
True, she wasn’t there to see me graduate. She won’t be there for my wedding, or for her first grandchild. But you want to know what I shall tell my children? That their grandmother was such a terrific person, and I loved her so much that it will forever hurt my heart to know she can’t be there. How ironic, I used to think. How ironic that the very person who gave me the greatest gift, the gift of life, would never be there to see how it turned out.
Now I know that she is there. She’s the wind that brushes its feathery fingers through my hair, much like she would when she was fussing about it’s frizzy state. She’s the cool feel of spring grass under my feet, tickling me like she would when I was so little and vunerable to her delicate, gentle touch. She’s looking down at me for every little thing I do, and although I miss her, I can now place my restless soul to peace knowing that she is watching over me. She didn’t miss my graduation; she will be there to hold my hand when I get married, she will see my first child.
The soft, damp ground has now stained the better part of my knee, but I don’t care. Instead I take out my balled up fist from my pocket, and press a kiss to what lays within it. A kiss to let her know I still care and think about her every day and night. I let a single, salty crystal tear roll from my cheek and hit the inside of my fist to let her know how much I miss her warmth, and appreciate everything she’s done for me. Now I place the item at the base of her grave, and stand to my feet, the wind whipping my hair across my face momentarily before I gaze up at the sky longingly.
“Fly away from the pain,” I whisper into the wind, and I turn on one heel, slowly walking towards the gate.
At the base of her grave lies a single, golden crane.
Written by: Angela Doiron
