She's Back

"How were the kids today?" a colleague asked me on my first day back to school in 3 1/2 weeks.

I considered my answer. They were happy to see me-- the pleasure and relief on their faces was genuine. And I felt lucky to return on Halloween, a day when it was easy to deflect any conversation. Not surprisingly, their writing pieces seemed a little unformed, but that may have been the case even if I had been there. What stuck out to me most was the casual disregard for rules and procedures I know I clearly explained.

"They were sweet, but definitely a little untamed," I answered truthfully.

She nodded.

"But that's going to change in a hurry!" I added.

Here's What I'll Say

If people ask me how I'm doing:

I'm glad to be back.

Even though it doesn't feel like it will be true.

According to Paul

Traveling home alone today after three weeks in Minnesota, I wanted a window seat, but all they had was the aisle, even when I double-checked at the airport. I wondered if, for some reason, I was meant to try an outside seat for a change, and I fought my bitter disappointment all the way down the jetway.

Arriving at 12D, I first noted that there was no window on the row, and I was also a bit relieved not to have to inconvenience the guy already sitting in the middle seat. "Don't get too comfortable," he reminded me as I fastened my seatbelt, "we're going to have to get up." A few minutes later we did just that to allow another guy to take his windowless seat.

"Hi, I'm Paul," said the first guy to the second.

"I'm Paul, too," the other man answered and they shook hands.

I didn't have to guess what was going to happen next.

"We're both Paul," the middle guy said to me.

"I heard," I told him. "That's easy to remember."

"What about you?"

"I'm Tracey."

"What do you do, Tracey?" he continued.

"I'm a teacher," I told him.

"I'm a southern boy," he laughed. "I hope you won't correct my grammar."

"I won't," I said, "I'll just silently judge you. But it won't be too bad-- I teach in Virginia."

"What brings you here?" he asked.

And that was a question I didn't expect. "My mom passed away last week," I answered, because I wasn't prepared to say anything else.

He grabbed my hand in his. "I'm so sorry," he said.

"Thank you," I said automatically, as I have many, many times in the last 8 days.

"I can tell you are just wrecked," he said.

"How?" I asked.

"Your eyes are so sad," he answered. "Losing my mom was the hardest thing I have ever been through," he continued, his eyes welling up. "I will keep you and your family in my prayers." And he gave my hand a squeeze. "Find a good movie to watch," he advised, and left me alone for the rest of the flight.

Morning Will Come; It Has No Choice

At this moment, I am all alone in my mother's apartment for the first time ever. All of our guests have gone, my sister and her family flew out this evening, Heidi, Emily and the boys are thrift shopping with Aunt Harriett and Larry, and Bill has stepped out.

How strange it is!

As my mother grew weaker my brother and sister and I contracted, swaddling her in the tightest wrapping of our love and attention that we could. When she died, we stayed bound together in our grief. But now we are unraveling because we must, each of us obligated to return to our lives--

wishing it wasn't so, knowing it is for the best. 

The Eve

You all were so kind to invite 25 people over for dinner on the night before your mom's funeral seemed to be the prevailing sentiment as our guests wished us good night. But I don't think we would have had it any other way. A gathering of friends and family from out of town and my mom's family of friends from here was a warm way to spend our last evening all together.

Plus, knowing that the house would start filling at 4 PM gave us a deadline to tie up all the loose ends for the funeral in the morning. And so, eulogy written, slideshow complete, gifts chosen and packed, picture printed and framed, bellies full of pizza and chocolate cake, and kitchen cleaned, we have all turned in to get some rest for what will be a very difficult day.

Maybe So

"Will you send me a sign?" my aunt asked my mother as she held her hand in the hospital.

"Yes," my mom answered without hesitation.

"Can you tell me what it will be?" her sister asked.

"You'll know it when you see it," Mom said.

And it seems to be true. A few hours after my mom died we saw three rainbows on our way back to the Twin Cities from Rochester.

"It's the trinity," said my aunt.

"It's one for each of you three kids," someone else told us later.

So, maybe? We have been seeing signs all week. Any silver lining or lucky break feels like a message from my mom telling us we're all going to be all right and she is, too. 

Dressing for the Occasion

"I refused to pack funeral clothes," my sister sighed when I picked her up from the airport on Saturday to take her down to Rochester where my mom was in the hospital.

"Bill doesn't have any either," I told her about my brother who had arrived the day before.

We both teared up because we knew they would need them, and probably much sooner than anyone expected.

As for me, when I had flown out to Minnesota a couple of weeks earlier it was because I was gravely concerned about my mom, but the thought of dressing for a funeral never entered my mind.

And so today, I found myself shopping for just such an outfit. Heidi and my sister went with me, and the three of trolled through several sections in the ladies' department at the Macys across the street from my mom's condo. Our group effort turned up a nice pair of black slacks with a raised velvet pattern and a fitted black sweater with a rhinestone-adorned peter pan collar. It was definitely a departure from my usual look, but as I scrutinized my reflection I nodded at myself in the mirror. "Mom would have liked this outfit," I said. "I'll take it."