My mother died on January 19, 2017, nine days before her 64th birthday. My dad asked me to write something to say at her funeral because I'm the poet in the family. To be honest, I was reluctant to say anything, knowing full well I wouldn't be able to put my whole heart and intention into the words I needed to describe this woman I loved so much. But I did because my dad asked me to, and he's done almost everything I've ever asked him to do for me. How could I refuse?
So, I walk Henry to the bus stop every morning, and as we walk to the end of our driveway he asks me questions: How hot is lava? Can lava melt a diamond? Why is the sky so colorful in the morning? How does quartz get on the rock? How much does the blue whale weigh, and how come it's the biggest animal that has ever lived if there were dinosaurs that were longer? I'm glad Henry's interested in the same things I am because I can usually answer his questions, but last Monday (January 16) he surprised me.
He has a friend on the bus named Stephen, who is a Christian and talks to Henry about Jesus. And this morning, instead of asking me if iron is stronger than steel, Henry asked me if I believed in Heaven. Instead of answering him I asked him the same question. He said Stephen told him about Heaven, that it is higher than space and everyone we loved was there. I asked again if he believed in Heaven and he said yes. He told me that the people we loved who have died are in Heaven but they are also always watching over us.
If this life was a novel I guess we'd all read that as a piece of foreshadowing, because by Thursday, the person I loved most in the world would be one of those people in Heaven.
My mother's heart was a magical place, a home with four rooms, one for each child she made, one home for her husband and their family to live in. The fairy tales are full of stories about magic houses that are modest dwellings from the outside, but once you cross the threshold you found yourself in a palace, with rooms innumerable, and furnishings beyond description.
I believe my mom's heart was like one of those magical houses. Her real capacity to love every person she ever met means she must have had a million rooms in her heart.
She was polite, soft spoken, thoughtful. When I was little my dad complained that he could have bought a library for all the overdue fines he paid out. I'm sure if he looked around the house, if he hasn't already, he'd find enough greeting cards to stock a Hallmark store. My mom was always buying cards for people. I hope she sent them all. If she didn't, I'm sorry, but I could go through the stacks and just know which one of you she meant to send each kind greeting to.
Her full name was Lucinda, and she was called Luci by my father and her many friends. The root words lum, lun, lus, and luc, come from the Latin lux, lumen, and lucis, all of these words mean light. Her name literally means light, and she was that. She was a beacon that led you out of dark times, she was bright enough to reveal your own goodness to yourself, she made it impossible to feel unloved in her presence. Her heart was a home and you were welcome there, the porch light never went off.
Last Monday I told Henry that I didn't believe in Heaven but it was okay if he did, and I think he decided to. I don't believe in Heaven, or God, I don't believe the Universe has special plans for any of us. I'm not sure what I think happens to us after we die, but in general I think nothing happens except the people left behind grieve and share stories and keep their deceased loved ones alive through their memories.
Many of my wiser friends who have already experienced the loss of a parent have told me in so many ways that I will see my mother again where I least expect her, and in all the other normal places, like when my kids smile, and in my own face as it ages and changes to become more like hers.
I already know that, though, I already know where to find her, and I'll tell you so you can find her, too. In March, when the turkey vultures dot the sky with their immensity, that's a good place to start. Drive down Centennial Rd. through the France Stone Quarry where the turkey vultures soar and roost and build their nests, and you're sure to find her there. Also in March, when the spring peepers start their chiming, you'll hear her. When you see and smell the peonies blossoming, when you see a black and yellow orb weaver in the garden, which she loved in spite of her deep fear or spiders, you'll also see her.
To be honest I'm not sure what else to say. I'm not sure I should have tried to say anything. I want you all to know that if you're here then you already know how special my mom was and you already know how you were loved by her. If you're here because you love me or one of my sisters but you never met my mom, she loved you, too, I guarantee it.
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