I held my Mom clutched to my bosom as we navigated rough and unforgiving waters.  She felt safe in the sheltered bay of my arms but the tides had taken yet another turn and she wanted to go home.  Home, where she and my Dad created, nurtured, and raised our family.  Home, where she belonged amongst her beautiful treasures and familiar messes.  Home, where she felt warmly tucked into decades of cherished memories.  But mostly, she longed to go home to die cradled in the oak arms of her beloved bed, the one she once shared with her one true love of many lifetimes. 

    So I brought her home to the hallowed space where everything was just the same as when she left, except for her.  Mom departed months earlier strong, vibrant, and hopeful, moving through the world as a brilliant and energetic force, and returned unrecognizably diminished, weak of body and spirit, struggling to find hope in the order of things, seemingly lost and drowning in the chaos of cancer.  Her beloved bed was the true sheltered bay where she could touch bottom, get her head above water, and breathe.  

    I loved being there too.  I was desperately aching for my childhood home to infuse my 18-month-old daughter with its energy and memories.  Every nook and cranny of our vessel whispered reminders of our family’s deeply-rooted rituals; glutinous Christmases in the “big room”, Fourths of July on the front porch deck my Mom designed herself, and cooking holiday meals in her “fresh and crisp” white kitchen with the fuschia countertops she picked on purpose.  Everything my daughter would never have the privilege of knowing or feeling deep into her bones.

    I was grateful the summer gave us an easy path for family to visit Mom.  She had a mighty friend community and they too showed up for help, support, prayers, and laughter.  Many beautiful hands helped me begin the daunting task of deconstructing Mom’s drug of choice.  See, my precious Mom was bipolar and she would get such a powerful hit from buying things. An absurd amount of things.  Beautiful things.  Thoughtful and unnecessary things.  She would often look at me tearfully from her bed knowing the responsibility of clearing the crushing weight of her regret fell on my shoulders.  I would always reassure her, “They’re just things Mom, none of it matters now”.  

    Mom’s bedroom was bathed in elegance.  Her artistic touch was etched into the juxtaposition of venerable family relics and impulsively acquired bargains.  My Great-Grandmother’s hatpins stood carefully collected in a sage glass jar on her old writing desk where she and my Mom both wrote loving letters.  A Terrible Towel was tossed on the back of the desk chair, a quiet nod to her aggressive passion for her Pittsburgh Steelers, in good times and in bad, and most especially when they wore black.  Family pictures of better and happier times kept watch around the room as, day by day, we lived into the agonizing answers to questions we didn’t want to ask.

    I perpetually played Andy Williams records. He was my Mom’s favorite and I wanted her journey softened by the silky sounds of his sultry serenades.  I enjoyed watching her enjoy Andy singing just to her.  As we listened to “Moon River” I picked up my baby book. I treasure being reminded of the extraordinary love my parents had for me and each other.  My Dad was 25 years older than my Mom yet between them, they held a deep knowing this wasn’t their first lifetime together.  I found something I’d never seen before tucked between the patinaed pages.  A small, folded piece of benign notepad paper.  A hand-written note, an intimate expression of love from my Dad to my Mom on the day I was born.  I read the heartfelt and touching words to her, “We have seen our new life emerge into being and held her in our arms.  We are her and she is us for all of our lives”.  Yes, I am.  For all of your lives and beyond the beyond.  Forever into the unknown.

    I would often sit there, between Mom in her bed and the brick fireplace anchoring the room and our profound sadness. The hearth held several ornate and tastefully arranged candlesticks.  One, in particular, gently drew in one’s attention as would a slow, deep, and soothing breath.  A soft brown stone-like angel with a peaceful countenance and gentle spirit stood in her chosen place, grounded and faithful, supported by her spiraled candlestick.  Her reassuring gaze and empathetic disposition landed serenely as if to say “I’m glad you’re home.  I have been holding this sacred space for you, for better, for worse, in health and sickness.  I will watch over you and bring you peace”.

    I would sit by Mom, just be-ing, painfully aware of the sanctity of these, our last, moments together.  This wasn’t new.  Many times we traversed the rocky terrain of heartbreak or maybe just clung to the cliff walls, not looking down into the crashing waves.  My Dad was taken from us seven years earlier but the last eleven months hit the hardest.  My little sister died.  Both my Mom and older sister were diagnosed with cancer.  My sister survived only 4 months.  My poor Mom.  She buried her husband and two of her three daughters.  She just looked at me lonely and longingly and said, “I will miss you the most”.

    September 26th, my Dad’s birthday.  The angel, peaceful and sure, watched over us from the hearth while I lovingly guided Mom toward her final ascent.  In her beloved bed, me the big spoon, her the little.  I reassured her I would be ok, someday.  I reminded her, with every step, of the glorious birthday reunion awaiting her just beyond.  My arm wrapped around her knowing soon I would let go and plunge into the rough and unforgiving waters alone.  I whispered “Go Mama, go” and let her angel take her home.