The Long Road

Six months ago today my mom died. And six months ago today I gave birth to myself so I wouldn't die with her. There was no choice in the matter, really. It was the premise I started this blog with years ago, knowing the time was coming when I would need to find my own way as never before. I had no idea what that meant at the time, but now I know that it goes a lot deeper than simply not being able to call her for advice.

Ironically, there was a service being held tonight at the hospice she spent her last week in — for those who have died there this year. It's two hours away from me, so I won't be going — nor do I wish to return there, to be honest. It was a wonderful place, the best possible situation under the circumstances, but I don't want to smell its smells, or feel the cold handle of the door in my hand, or ride in the bright elevator, or walk down the hushed, carpeted hallways, or see the rose bushes budding alongside the parking lot. Memories of seeing her there are hard enough to keep at bay, and very difficult to deal with when they do sneak in.

I remember wondering when I started relying on the chant cds to keep my commute breakdown free (not the car, but me) "How long is this going to work for? Is this just a bandage or is it a healing salve?" It worried me, the thought of boredom setting in, the thought that the ability of the chants to calm me would fade. And yet, 6 months later, the practice still works. So I don't question, I just keep going with it. My Sunday night kirtan-wallah often reminds us that he's been doing the same chants for 40 years and isn't tired of them yet. He says they continue to peel layers from his heart, like an onion.

My heart is onion-like in that it still causes me to cry when I talk about my mom, or when I hear some sappy sad song, or when I see a kind-looking older woman on the sidewalk. At the six month mark I can see that grief is a long road, no matter what song you choose to sing while navigating it.