Today was a moment in time. We had carefully marked the calendar date and set aside this Spring Saturday morning. My sisters and I found our ways home to be present for the laying of our mother's grave marker.
We have waited for this moment since January. We waited until all daughters could pay tribute. Days came and went without this final tribute, because all could not be here. But today presented the opportunity we needed, and so it was. My mother's daughters and our daughters gathered.
We stood graveside with my father, all of us quiet and thoughtful. The marker was laid and dusted. The simple and elegant granite glistened in the April sun. Roses and lilies graced the stone. The ever near emotions of these last months flooded over me and over us yet again. My dad, so strong, so handsome, the dedicated husband of fifty years now left behind in a pensive, private semi-circle of his daughters and their daughters. Lip quivering and shaking ever so slightly, he was surrounded by the now women in his life, one generation and the next, with but one notable absence, the woman without whom today's circle would not have been.
Outwardly, we do well. Others comment on our strength. Inwardly, our hearts remain broken. For as daughters and granddaughters, we instinctively need our mother and grandmother. Even in those times, and there were most certainly times, of complete and total disconnect,there is a craving for the family's matriarch.
Our mother loved having daughters. She revelled in dance and piano recitals, pageants, and the like. I don't think she ever knew even a fleeting moment's longing for a son. Although Mother adored her four grandsons, it seemed somehow fitting that only daughters and granddaughters joined my dad to share this morning's simple service.
Daddy reached out for my hand. I quickly seized it and squeezed it, needing the comfort of my father's reassurance and his strength. Perhaps he needed mine. I heard telltale sniffles outing the seemingly strong daughters now without their mother. I looked at my own daughter and niece. I knew someday, inevitably, they too would face this moment in time.
The beloved soft-spoken minister of our home church broke the silence with scripture and prayer. He spoke of joy. My mind raced through things I should have and could have shared with my mother. Regret.....without doubt the cruelest emotion. I loved you Mother, maybe more than any. I just didn't always show it best.
On this breezy, almost balmy Saturday morning, I hope you felt the love of your three daughters, their two daughters and the husband with whom you made this family. I hope you shared this moment in time.
No comments:
Post a Comment