addressing grief

 Just over a month ago my mom passed over, as the saying goes. The permanence of that is beginning to settle in my mind. We all grieve in different ways and at a different pace. My grief strikes when I am reminded of her. Those reminders are scattered about the world. I believe that is a result of the lives we lived. After high school graduation I never lived at home again. In truth, with a two year exception, we didn't live in the same state anymore. And the years passed by as I moved about. I would call often and we had our chats. Physical visits were far and few between. Then Dad passed and things changed a bit. Mom remarried, moved homes once again. Yes she was still my mother but now she was a different person, married to someone else, someone not my father. That certainly made a change to the dynamics. Strange how I began to view Mom as a person, not just Mother. And grandchildren came. And due to distance, time and circumstance Mom seldom saw them. In a strange turn in life my mom was, in a sense, never a grandmother or great grandmother. Oh she had the title alright, justly earned, but she never played the role. Now, with her passing, she will remain mostly a photograph or two, some objects that she created, and stories told. 

 I find myself searching for a home for her memory, a place she exists. I think that is what grieving is all about. It takes times to sort through a lifetime and place the pieces in order. I find I'm not just trying to remember my mother, I'm trying to remember a person. I know what I am supposed to remember, what is expected, but there is more, much more to her than mother. My mother, not such an easy character to portray. The depth of her personality was such that it makes it difficult. Oh I could just record the expected platitudes but she was more. Was she my friend? No, I don't believe we ever reached that plateau. She remained Mom, forever. She always told me, don't speak ill of the dead. I think she believed in that philosophy, as she certainly never shared any secrets about the past with me. But I find myself struggling to define that, to figure out what is "ill" of the dead. The truth certainly can't be ill, can it? Perhaps what she meant was, never voice any displeasure you had with another person once that person has passed. Airing dirty laundry is what that would be called when the person is still living. 

 The bottom line, the final chapter has to include a simple statement, I loved her. I loved her as my mother. She wasn't the easiest person to deal with, I don't believe she endeared herself to many folks. Still I would defend her against an army! The privilege of speaking about her, and her ways, is reserved to me. I have a brother that shares that privilege with me, I can't deny that, but I can contest his statements, as he can mine. I can't help but feel it is left to me to write her story. That could take the form of an elegy. You don't hear about an elegy very often these days. Laments for the dead have fallen out of favor. Today we see roadside markers, decals on car windows, tattoos and for some the renaming of streets or perhaps a plaza. An elegy requires much greater effort in my thinking. An elegy will form the final picture of the person. Different from a eulogy where your grief is expressed, hope for the future offered, and comfort is the goal, an elegy could be called a death poem. The term is ambiguous however, and can take many forms. In whatever form, it is an expression of grief and a means to address that grief. I do owe Mom that much.