I think of you when I eat spaghetti. (And by spaghetti, I mean anything with noodles and red sauce, since that is what ‘spaghetti’ always meant in our house). When I used to make it, I usually thought about the fact that I didn’t try very hard, because it was so far from what yours tasted like. In fact, it was barely tolerable. God, how I hated the kitchen. And if you were there to try it, you would tell me honestly that it sucked. You were not afraid to be honest with me – that is what best friends do. But today, as I sat here eating my left over spaghetti with a Ragu base, the perfect blend of spices (heavy on the garlic and red pepper flakes) and hot sausage, I thought about how even you, Queen of Spaghetti, would be in awe of this batch. It tasted so good, and I have no doubt that, in spirit, you were sitting in that chair across from me savoring my small success. Not just my success with this batch, but my growing inclination to enjoy the kitchen, spend more time preparing my food, and less time being a mindless consumer going to restaurants way too often. You would be proud of me as a woman who was blazing my own path – an odd blend of carefree hippie and ancient wise woman.
Truth is, I think of you so often, Mom. Not quite nine months since your passing and I still think of you dozens of times each day. Sometimes memory is not kind, for every day I have to remember again that you’re gone. You were the oldest constant in my life, my first sense of love and safety, the first builder of my world. As difficult as it is for me to remember and accept that you were “gone,” it has been even more difficult to accept that you are still here. My faith has been shaky. My faith that energy cannot be destroyed, only change form. I am coming to a point where I am accepting that, and I feel you here with me more often. It was not that you were not here, it was that I was looking with my eyes. We humans sure do like the tangible. We also don’t let go very easily – we want what we have always had. But I know that you are there when I reach out my hand and touch the wind, when I feel sea breeze on my face, and every night when I see the moon. No matter what face nature wears, I feel your soul my beautiful mother, for it was the simplest joys that you taught me to truly cherish. You are in all of my moments, for our souls still share the same space they always have. I am merely being challenged to use a greater depth than just seeing with my eyes.
The winter holiday season especially brought me to my senses. Sometimes ‘warm memories’ sounds really cliché, but that is exactly the kinds of memories I have of us at Christmas time. Warm. Baking (sweating with the windows wide open), hot cocoa on snow days (and on those many days you just let me stay home), making crafts or coloring or reading together under the covers when I was little, while we were oblivious to the cold outside. I felt that warmth this season. I shared that warmth with my community in some special ways, and thought of you with each of my actions. As I quietly celebrated the winter solstice, I began to feel the first sparks of healing from my grief. Those sparks lit a fire in whose light I saw your spirit dancing on flames as I continued my journey.
It all makes me think of you. All of life. Every breath. The bad times make me wish I had my mom to cry to, the good times make me want to see the happiness in your eyes as you genuinely share my joy. I love you so very much, mom. As I write this, I know that this will likely be the first of many entries about the ways that I feel you with me and continue to honor your spirit, for our connection is eternal, and I shall try to make you proud of me.
~ Peace and Love, Tracey
© Tracey Love, 2017. All rights reserved.
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