(no subject)
Likely the last time I sleep in this house. I’m aware of Mom being gone - sitting and looking at her piano, hearing the Scarlatti
K. 380 in my head, remembering this story and those buttons and that glass and “she kept EVERYTHING!!”, with notes. Christopher is in the other bed across Room 2B; before he drifted off so I can hear him breathing, the silence from the other room was… not eerie, not deafening, just… nobody there. Mom wasn’t doing her nightly routine, water running, doors closing, lamp off, just… quiet. Not even empty, I don’t think.
At her service I heard over and over what a presence she was, calm and kind but strong, strong but calm and kind. That list of goals - to be less extravagant, a better musician, to swear less (!?!), and more - seriously, she accomplished them all. I’d have given my right arm to hear her drop an f-bomb, but the world would have ended right then.
What an enigma. Loved beautiful things, generous with those things… “what’s the point of having them if you don’t use and enjoy them?” Who’s going to listen to me ramble on a Sunday evening? Or encourage me to splurge on Martha Washington geraniums?
And yet she’s not gone, she’s all around. I don’t have any specific feeling or vision of where or how she is like I did Dad. Just different.
It’s 1:42am, maybe more later. Time to Wordle.