anyway, i was running a bit late (having gotten caught up deciding on the elevation of the back patio - higher, so as to provide a nice continuous flow from the interior, or down at ground level, for more privacy - such are the challenges of a sloping piece of real estate). i almost always accept these home party invitations to support my friends, but try to limit myself to purchasing a single item. of course these days the temptation is to say "i'll have one of everything" since we're starting from scratch.
the party was well under way when i got there - the little presentation had already been done and most of the ladies were sitting around chatting or filling out order forms. my neighbor christy always gives such a warm welcome, and she introduced me around to the other guests. i was introduced to one elderly woman - i'm guessing she was over 80 - and christy explained to her that i was the one christy had told her about, the one who owned the burned down house across the cul de sac. the older woman gave a heartfelt pat on my hand "you poor dear", she said. she asked if we had been able to salvage anything and i told her that pretty much everything had been destroyed, either burned outright or exposed to such intense heat, soot, and water damage so to render them unrecoverable. she tsked and shook her head "oh, my, the photos, and the memories..." and i added "the christmas ornaments, the little cards and drawings made by our kids when they were small..." - we both understood that it's the little things that are the hardest to part with, for they are truly irreplaceable.
it was obvious that she felt terrible about my situation so i said "but i just try to stay focused on what i did get - my two children, my husband, and even my two dogs - no one was hurt and we are so grateful for that". we chatted about how, in the end, everything else is just "stuff" and that we did indeed get the most important things out, how my children and my husband are by far my most valuable "things" in my life. she touched my hand and we locked eyes. she said "i lost a son, you know, when he was 20". my stomach dropped. my eyes welled up. i said "oh my gosh, i am so so sorry". she gave a slight smile and said "well, dear, it was quite a long time ago". i said to her "but as a mom, i feel for your loss, and i am sure it is still right here", i patted my heart. she smiled. "yes", she said, "you can never really get over it, even after all these years". we agreed that it is never supposed to happen that way, the parent outliving the child.
i didn't ask what had happened to him - it's not important, really - but i wish i had let the moment linger a little longer. i wish i had asked her about him, what his name was, what he looked like, what kind of shenanigans he might have gotten into. because every single day i think about what could have happened to my own children on christmas morning. it's an overwhelming, crushing feeling: the stark realization of how close i came to having my life irrevocably, fundamentally, and drastically changed all in the blink of an eye. and here was this woman, who had lived with that very pain, my worst fear come true, for more than half of her days. i imagine that when memories are all you have left, there's a bittersweet comfort in someone asking you to dig them up. i wish i had taken that extra step with her.
i weep for her, and i weep for all moms who have had to bury their child. today must be an especially difficult and painful day for them. i can only imagine how absolutely horrible today (and every mother's day to come) would be for me if things had gone slightly differently on christmas morning. just 5 more minutes. if the unimaginable had been realized.
but instead this mother's day i am going out to dinner with both of my amazing, unique, bright, frustrating, wonderful, creative, challenging, and often hilarious kids, and my rock-of-gibraltar husband. this is by far my best mother's day ever.
i'll be sure to remind myself of that even when the kids start bickering about who gets to sit shotgun on the way to the restaurant.
happy mother's day, one and all.
happy mother's day, one and all.
Happy Mothers' Day Veek, and thanks for keeping an eye on the real prize. Every time I think of The Fire I shudder a bit at what could have been. You all walked the fine line between the disaster that happened to you and the unbearable tragedy that might have been ours to try to comprehend without you.
ReplyDeleteNow we know what we can endure and survive, and move on toward what's next. Happy Day indeed.