VIGNETTE
It was an unseasonably warm October day. Mom and I had conversed comfortably in the car on the way to and from her radiation appointment—about my recent blog posts that mentioned her, the LIVE sign I’d purchased, and her concern over her cat being attacked by some feral felines. I’d assumed if she wanted to discuss more serious topics, she’d have brought them up. Back at her house, I helped her out of the car. She swayed a little as she stood, and I grabbed her arm to steady her. She clung to me as we made our way to the back door. Mom expressed the desire to stay outside, so I settled her in a chair before getting her coffee and cigarettes. Setting them on the small white table in front of her, I asked if she’d be alright if I headed home to make supper for David and the children. She assured me she would. I can remember leaning down to kiss her cheek, and while I’m certain I would have told her I loved her, I can’t recall actually saying the words.
Once inside the car, I started the engine before glancing back at Mom. She was looking straight at me, a smile on her face. She raised her hand slightly, giving a little wave. It was that one small gesture that undid me. My throat filled with tears and I could barely breathe. I looked away so she wouldn’t see me cry. My mother is dying, I thought as I headed down the driveway. My mother is dying. I sobbed all the way home.
There is so much we didn’t talk about that day. In fact, we hadn’t mentioned death or dying in any of our conversations since her diagnosis. I’d been with her when the doctor informed her she had lung cancer, had heard her whisper “I wondered what it would be.” We never talked about fear, or even faith, which surprised me, considering how important religion was to her.
More than six years after her death, in early 2017, when I reread letters Mom had written, her Memory Book, and the odd notebooks and partial journals I’d inherited, I realized she’d already said it all, had managed to impart her faith and knowledge in the life she’d lived. There was nothing more to say. Her last lesson was in facing death with dignity, grace, and the firm belief she would soon be joining both our father and Our Father.
She surprised me, this mother of mine, appearing in this manuscript in ways I had not imagined, her words neatly written in her
perfect penmanship. It was a delight when my father unexpectedly made an appearance in the ninth chapter, and it was healing when a poem about my grandson erupted from the ashes of grief.
As I culminate months of writing, in my mind’s eye, I see my mother sitting outside at that little table, a cigarette in her hand, a cup of coffee in front of her. Her face is lit by a beatific smile, her eyes filled with love. She lifts her hand, giving a little wave.
“I love you, Mom,” I say this time, waving back.
IGNITE
Now that you’ve completed this book, decide how you will incorporate creativity in your life to become happier and healthier and live your life to the fullest. Circle the steps that you have already taken, underline those you’d like to try, and then add your own in the space provided.
• I will remind myself of those things I loved doing as a child.
• I will think outside the box.
• I will schedule time to create.
• I will give myself regular periods of solitude.
• I will try new things.
• I will allow myself to fail.
• I will surround myself with things that bring me joy.
• I will be mindful of my moments.
• I will be kinder.
• I will help others.
• I will practice gratitude.
• I will find my tribe, a group that feeds my soul.
• I will leave a legacy of creativity.
Add your own:
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