January 24, 2009
and death is no parentheses
My mother is not well. And I think, for the first time, as I was sitting in Starbucks drinking coffee with her a few weeks ago, I realized that never again will she be well. This is it. This is where we start from. This is where it gets harder from. I'm reminded of a line from Platonic Noise: "the moment of concentrated awareness of irreversibility, of that which nothing can undo, in the light of which life... will henceforth be lived."
I called my brother tonight, and we made a plan to make a plan. We will talk with her. See what we can do. We know our mother, though. She will not change. She will not admit defeat. She will hold onto the shards of memory, reconstructed in a puzzling and puzzled way, and, fueled with unrequited emotion and the lack that must haunt her so, step further into the night.
To be haunted and not aware. The terror, the lack, the water and what is down there. To remember and never have again. The brandy, the calmness, the perished standing just outside our knowing. Memory is the sense of loss, and loss pulls us after it, says Marilynne Robinson.
My mom tries so hard to be well. To find joy, to be at peace, to help others in need. She tries so hard. We will try, too, my brother and I. Together, I guess.
A family.
After so many years of trying.
Posted by Sean at January 24, 2009 08:06 PM