This morning, at about 9:30, we were absorbing Nola's delight, Paul and I remembering so many Easter egg hunts through so many years -- our own childhoods, our children's childhoods, the nieces and nephews scavenging for goodies in my parents' garden on Lee Street. . . .
And then a half-hour or so later, I answered the phone to my sister's voice and I knew what I would hear. She's gone, my sweet little mother, released finally from cancer's insults, gone, she hoped, to meet my father again, my brother, her sisters and brothers. I hope that is so. They will all certainly be united in our memories of them for decades and generations and many stories to come. My siblings and their partners and their children were starting the story-making already today, watching home movies together and swapping memories, texting or Facebooking me regularly to keep me connected. I wish I were there. Oh, I wish that so.
I'm consoled by what a good death it was, but I'm nonetheless surprised to find myself catching wave after wave of grief, paroxysms of tears, a fetal-curl impulse to my shoulders and knees. Our daughter and granddaughter have ferried away, and Paul is sweetly caring for me. He has a little beachfire going now in our copper "firepan" and some blankets to wrap me in, so I'm going to go sit in a colourful chair, watch the seagulls and the passing boats, count the seals, and let the wave's susurrations sooth me.
Thank you so much for all your lovely comments over the past week -- they sooth me as well. . . .