April In Her Heart
Yesterday was the one-year anniversary of my mother leaving this world behind. I have heard the term “easy death”, a warrior term that refers to a person dying quickly and without too much suffering. This was not one of those.
My aunt Joyce, a gifted writer and every bit my mom’s sister, sent a note today because the coming of Spring had caused her to reflect on the good memories of beloved family passed.
She writes beautifully about this April in Iowa:
The Willows are bright green, the daffodils blooming, the red bud about to bloom, the roses sending out shoots, the river flowing quietly.
Her words made me realize that too often I think of the things that are wrong with the world. Even now, as I write these words, the cynic deep in my soul cries for his freedom to condemn and complain.
But my mother, Donna, so often saw the small pleasures in this life:
A cup of coffee and a smoke on the porch.
The stray cat who would come by for free food but only from her small, bird-like hands.
The way Spring nudges the sun back to it’s proper position as arbiter of the long, flush days of Summer.
And oh, how she disdained the short, gray Days of Winter…
Of course, in Colorado the Days of Winter are not unlike a pack of overweight dogs with lolling tongues and more woof than snap. I think that’s part of what kept her going during the tough months, when the arthritis crept up from the shadows and suggested that maybe life wasn’t all that worth living. She could count on the weak spine of Colorado Winter and the comforting promise of Spring in the mountains.
Here in Colorado days are beginning to lengthen and in-between the occasional late season storm, the skies are blossoming into those cobalt blue masterpieces my mother so adored.
I was just the other day telling my teenage son, who maybe misses her most of all, about his grandma in her thirties: a tennis addict who had yet to face the merciless grip of RA; a beautiful tanned thing with jet-black hair the color of the Ford Mustang they’d sold maybe a decade and a half earlier. I told how she always wanted me to play—me a lithe, in-shape version of the now fat, elder self: a young man my own son now has a hard time imagining.
I would win the matches that first summer, and most of the games, though I was impressed by her verve and skill.
Thing is, I was the athlete. At least I was then. But at the end of our Summer of Tennis it was off to school for me, and while I was away, she’d practice against anyone who would play her, even the best players in the region.
When I returned next Spring, it showed. We played in shorts, even though the Wyoming snow still wandered up to courtside for a seat and the cold in the air still had teeth. She worked me hard, never letting up: effortless in her swing, graceful in her power.
She bested me in as many matches as I bested her. The games were a dog-fight, many going down to deuce or double-deuce before a decision. In the end, the day was a draw, yet I will never forget the smile on her face, the look of complete contentment, her spirit soaring high above her on the mighty wings of something set out for and achieved.
It is in that spirit that I write today: the indomitable spirit of my wonderful mother, whom I miss more than anyone can ever know. She brightened my every day while she was here, and her memory keeps me going even still.
Would that we could all have souls as clear and unencumbered as hers.
There is no doubt in me that I will see her one day. My dream is of that first serve again, love-love.
I miss you, Mom.
The back seat is quiet.
My aunt Joyce, a gifted writer and every bit my mom’s sister, sent a note today because the coming of Spring had caused her to reflect on the good memories of beloved family passed.
She writes beautifully about this April in Iowa:
The Willows are bright green, the daffodils blooming, the red bud about to bloom, the roses sending out shoots, the river flowing quietly.
Her words made me realize that too often I think of the things that are wrong with the world. Even now, as I write these words, the cynic deep in my soul cries for his freedom to condemn and complain.
But my mother, Donna, so often saw the small pleasures in this life:
A cup of coffee and a smoke on the porch.
The stray cat who would come by for free food but only from her small, bird-like hands.
The way Spring nudges the sun back to it’s proper position as arbiter of the long, flush days of Summer.
And oh, how she disdained the short, gray Days of Winter…
Of course, in Colorado the Days of Winter are not unlike a pack of overweight dogs with lolling tongues and more woof than snap. I think that’s part of what kept her going during the tough months, when the arthritis crept up from the shadows and suggested that maybe life wasn’t all that worth living. She could count on the weak spine of Colorado Winter and the comforting promise of Spring in the mountains.
Here in Colorado days are beginning to lengthen and in-between the occasional late season storm, the skies are blossoming into those cobalt blue masterpieces my mother so adored.
I was just the other day telling my teenage son, who maybe misses her most of all, about his grandma in her thirties: a tennis addict who had yet to face the merciless grip of RA; a beautiful tanned thing with jet-black hair the color of the Ford Mustang they’d sold maybe a decade and a half earlier. I told how she always wanted me to play—me a lithe, in-shape version of the now fat, elder self: a young man my own son now has a hard time imagining.
I would win the matches that first summer, and most of the games, though I was impressed by her verve and skill.
Thing is, I was the athlete. At least I was then. But at the end of our Summer of Tennis it was off to school for me, and while I was away, she’d practice against anyone who would play her, even the best players in the region.
When I returned next Spring, it showed. We played in shorts, even though the Wyoming snow still wandered up to courtside for a seat and the cold in the air still had teeth. She worked me hard, never letting up: effortless in her swing, graceful in her power.
She bested me in as many matches as I bested her. The games were a dog-fight, many going down to deuce or double-deuce before a decision. In the end, the day was a draw, yet I will never forget the smile on her face, the look of complete contentment, her spirit soaring high above her on the mighty wings of something set out for and achieved.
It is in that spirit that I write today: the indomitable spirit of my wonderful mother, whom I miss more than anyone can ever know. She brightened my every day while she was here, and her memory keeps me going even still.
Would that we could all have souls as clear and unencumbered as hers.
There is no doubt in me that I will see her one day. My dream is of that first serve again, love-love.
I miss you, Mom.
The back seat is quiet.
posted by Commish at 1:46 PM
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