My angel mother

I wake to the pattering of feet above my head.  I am in the basement, on the pull-out bed, wrapped in the quilt made by a crazy old lady from Mississippi.  I see the sun brightening up the room...I watch as the beams break into a million pieces of color as they hit the patterned glass and I think about how I feel so grounded in this moment because my mom is walking up above me. 

How every morning of every day I have ever known,

I have opened my eyes and have set myself aright, resting in the peace that comes from knowing that my mom is near. 

To know that she is alive and kicking...
and dancing...
and singing silly songs...
or cooking brisket...
...that she is getting onto my dad about what he has forgotten at the moment...
or pumping her fist into the air upon learning that her blood numbers are going up "like they are supposed to"...
...that I can call her just to hear her voice say, "Hi, darlin!"

these things, these snippets of time and essence...
all these things
keep my world spinning on its axis.

Because I know that she is there.

And then I think about my family and friends who are waking up this morning, seeing the same sun as me, whose minds will slip also into those familiar paths but, rather than gently settling into their skins, will find themselves, instead, falling into a sunken place.

A place without their mothers.

I scarcely can imagine that place.  Whenever my mind wanders to a future in that vacant space I have to catch my breath, hold something to steady myself, find something fixed to focus my gaze.  Because I have never known myself or my world without my mother in it.  I am here, because of her.  I am who I am, because of her.

And I want to always live in a world that has my mother in it.  Because how can I exist without my mother in the world? 

But then I see those that I love, those who have lost their mothers in the last month, the last year, the last decade...
and somehow they are still walking and talking and breathing.
I know that, some days, those basic acts are all they can do...it still hurts so much...
but
they
are
still
alive.

There is still life, despite the loss.  There is still love in the world, despite the severing.  There is still light, despite the darkness.

And I have hope.

Because, if it is true, that we are who we are because of our mothers...
it means that this whole dance,
all of the goodness and light
spun dizzy
with all of the defiance and angst
...all of it
gains momentum by touching another life.

Through loving and singing with our own children, by partnering with kindred souls or living alongside people that challenge us...
all of it
ripples on
and
on
and
on....

and people are continually made and remade
because we are in their lives...which means that our mothers live on.

And so, just maybe, I will always, every day that I will ever know, wake in the morning and find myself grounded in the moment

because my mom is walking above me.