She died last evening, an easy death after a stunningly awful few days.
A week ago, my mom was laughing and as alive as anyone I have known. I spent last Tuesday with her and she hoovered up a fudge brownie from her favorite bakery, Back In The Day. Like all things chocolate, it vanished into her tiny body without adding a crumb of fat.
My mom was the desserts-equivalent of a black hole in space.
She weighed eighty pounds, and maybe five of that was Aqua Net hair spray.
She was fragile as paper. She was tough as stones.
Let the ideas that brought her comfort all be true: let her be in the arms of my dad now, and reunited with her parents and the big sister who was her fiercest friend. Let magic be real - it must be real, we need it so much - and let me believe it as she did.
Is faith a choice, or is it a gift? I don't know.
I don't know.
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Comments
Rated.
Yes, let the magic be real. It is. Right now, with your mum, it is. I promise.
much love to you
Amen, and amen. This tribute . . . it is magical, too.
"fragile as paper - tough as stones."
Indeed.
rated
Lovely piece. R
For us here, the key is how we live. While your mother had "stunningly awful" days near the end, she also was hoovering brownies and laughing not so long ago. That's a pretty good thing. It's a damn good thing. Remember that part. Peace to you.
Beautiful post, and blessings and sympathy to you. Be well.
Very lovely tribute. Very lovely indeed.
Peace
This is a most sincere prayer; it is magical.
Beautiful sentimental notions.
Rated.
Good mourning.
That's literally.
I know you are not alone.
This pain's grief can pass.
Grief might transform to:`
You will exude fragrance.
`
Rest in the sad moments.
Grief accomplice purpose.
Allow grief to be completed.
`
My Mother, Frances, missed my Father. Maybe she missed making home made pies. Keep those certain memories that You share that bring glad tears. Scarf up a flour measuring cup your Mother used.
Wrap up a "Silly," but not.
Those treasured souvenirs,
and place them in linen cloth,
a rolling pin that rolled dough,
and on and on, homemade pies,
a good cry now and goofy comes.
I say:` how can we not cry and sigh ...
You make me remember my parents.
Thanks for sharing. I share your pain.
Goofy is a consequence of great pain.
I empathize with your loss. Embrace.
Let's aim to not be not too eccentric.
My hopeful gestures of 'irene' peace.
P.S. Sam Kass is the private cook for Michelle and Barack Obama. Sam Kass was featured in the New York Times Food section yesterday. Sam used my Winter Butternut Squash Recipe.
If I wasn't practicing nonviolence ... I ask "Hello, she lied"
Hello, Won't Ya please knock Sam Kass on the noggin with Ya's Mom's
ash rolling pin?
Use your Mothers?
Roll the pasta dough?
Petition the White House.
Knock on a cooks bald head.
Get the ear of the highest level.
Knock on Michelle Obama door.
Take a rolling pin to the White House.
Approach government with a wood rolling pin.
Hit gently with the ash or oak wood. O my, thunk.
Respectfully, wish everyone luck. "Hello," she lied
I am not lying. Sam Kass is to be respected. Hi Sam.
Get those roaches out of the kitchen cabinet? okay.
Use green Osage Oranges for flea bagels with lice.
There are a few real human beings in the kitchen.
My sincere,
heartfelt best wishes to "Hello, she lied. Thanks.
I missed
"Hello, Won't Ya please knock Sam Kass on the noggin with Ya's Mom's ash rolling pin?"
Yes I will. An excellent idea, and thank you.