Couldn’t we just go back for a visit so I can ask you questions that now hang in the air unanswered?
Like, did you used to thin out the hasta plants that grew along the walkway?
We were gifted several hasta plants last year and now they seem poised to take over the whole garden.
I don’t remember you gardening when I was little. Maybe I was in first grade?
I was wondering if you had wanted me to help you clear out and organize your accumulated stuff, but I never asked you. I don’t know why. I guess I thought it was enough to visit or bring you swimming at Laurel Lake, and going out for ice cream after.
Maybe we were just different, but you never failed to help when I asked. I was your ‘needy’ daughter I read in a letter you sent my now deceased sister.
Couldn’t we just meet on a sweet summer day and walk together and talk?
You could tell me more stories about your life, about my relatives.
I know it was a hard life, Mom. I know. It was hard all over, and it is again. You loved going to your French Catholic boarding school. I’m sure it took you away from whatever else was happening.
You had friends that made your world – and Harvey who was your first boyfriend and I never knew why you broke up, but he remained in your life through letters and occasional visits your whole life. I think he really loved you.
Couldn’t we have time to be together more than snippets in a dream that were strange and unsatisfying? I suppose something is better than nothing, and I’m glad I saw you as a young, radiant woman.
You offered me food, or were carrying food. Was that a message to myself from my subconscious? Maybe I need spiritual food now?
Change is tough, but so much changes all the time you’d think I’d be used to it. But I’ve also lived in the same place for ten years, but I don’t expect that will always be so. I’ve had the same routines, hung out with many of the same people – so there’s a sense of stability even though we’re all changing all the time. We’re growing older, and friends and relatives are leaving or have left us.
I heard your voice say “what a rainy day,” as I looked out the porch window onto the steady rain dampening the days plans.
I thought you were really there for a moment because I hadn’t been thinking of you, but it was your voice I heard. It was both comforting and filled me with longing to see you again.
Thank you for what you did for me, and for loving me.
*
*
*
© seekingsearchingmeaning (aka Hermionejh), Making A Way Blog, 2010 – current