Now Playing: Dinosaur, Adrian Belew

Friends, thank you for your patience as I process my mother’s death and burial. This series is almost at its end for now. I think. I hope.

I honestly had no idea I’d write about all this. But maybe I’m doing it to help myself process her passing. My father died in December about a decade ago, and between the timing and the cold, I was miserable for months. It lingers, of course it does.

There’s so much to be grateful for. So many people showed up for me in ways that were wildly personal and kind yesterday.

(I can already tell this post is going to be clumsy, with everyday language and plain old porch-thoughts. No fancy dress today.)

That’s disappointing, Word Raccoon.

Hey, Word Raccoon? WR?

I think she’s sleeping in.

It’s 6:30 AM. I’m on the sunporch. An acquaintance just jogged past, even though it’s been raining. Go, friend, go.

This is all throat-clearing.

Poems I wrote yesterday:

• Pop-Splattered Van
• Last Supper
• More Than Meets the Eye

There may be more hiding in my Notes app.

(Dude’s now walked a lap around the block. If you’re going to play the roving sentinel, you might as well bring cookies. Maybe he’s trying to get a good view of Pity the Fool, my silly, flashy robe. Step right up, sir. I’m eating leftover rolls for breakfast. Does that appeal?)

At the funeral, something remarkable happened. A classmate from college knelt beside me where I sat on a loveseat. He took my hand and recited Emily Dickinson poems, beautifully, without breaking eye contact. (I didn’t even blink. Why do people fear eye contact? I find it bonding.)

I thanked him and began reciting I Died for Beauty, then paused.
“Perhaps not the right tone for a funeral?” I said.
Word Raccoon can’t leave a tender moment alone.

“I’ve been writing poetry nonstop,” I told him.

He rose and sat in a chair.

He invited me to read at an event he’s hosting. I thanked him, squirming. I’m not sure my poetry is the kind people listen to aloud. It’s probably better metabolized in private.

He read the memorial poem I wrote for my mom.
“Beautiful,” he said. “May I use this?” He mentioned a use that felt purposeful.
“It’s personalized, so I’m not sure how universal it is. But if you want to, of course.”
“Who knew when we sat in class all those years ago…”

Who knew someone would gift me Dickinson poems at a funeral? The gift I gave in return was to sit still, unblinking, fully receptive. A gift of beauty deserves no less a reception, though it takes courage sometimes to accept.

(My jogger friend is back, round two. Should I wave or pretend I don’t see him for his comfort? I think I’ll be the Queen of Unseeing this morning. It’s overcast and I haven’t turned the porch light on.)

Other unexpected kindnesses yesterday:
A friend brought a small, perfect gift bag. Inside was a homemade lemon curd thumbprint cookie (so good I paused mid-bite and insisted Barry try it), other candies, small composition books for writing, and, this detail kills me, a lipstick, because I had run into her the day before and mentioned I was reading James.

The lipstick? Just my shade.

Former coworkers came, too, my forever heart friends. We made lunch plans for soon. It did me good to see them.

Relatives, near and far, came on a stunningly beautiful day. I appreciated anyone willing to be indoors at all.

These are fragments. I’m sure I’m forgetting people who deserve to be honored. If so, I apologize.

Of the service itself I’ll say only this: my mother would have loved it. Barry sang, even though he could barely get through the song. There were lovely letters read, heartfelt stories from many. It was perfect.

Barry’s uncle stayed for the service and afterward said, “I came a McFarland; I’m leaving a Sizemore.”

No, you’re crying.

Before the service a friend sat with me. (I was mingling plenty too, I promise, but I’ve learned to take breaks when needed. Being honored, while a great kindness, can be exhausting. Especially when people you don’t know show up for your mother. You’re grateful, but also making small talk about death. That’s the hurdle, isn’t it?)

(Runner, round three. He clocked me this time. Next round, I’ll wave. Bedhead curls, flashy robe, and all.)

Let’s talk awkward.

A man my mother used to know came and sat with me and my son. I brought up something I knew he was once passionate about, and he responded with something sad and saggy. I shifted to asking about his family. Heartache again. I bailed. Claimed I needed to speak with someone else.

I never run from hard conversations. But this one, I did.

If by some miracle he reads this (he won’t): I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I know that sorrow. I was the right person, just wrong time, friend.

Another friend gave me the biggest squeeze and sat with me. It was exactly what I needed.

Yet another friend forgave me for the half hug I unintentionally gave her as I was being called away. I caught back up with her for a proper hug a few minutes later. Effort deserves rewarding.

(Round four. Training for a marathon, or hoping to glimpse Barry’s LP collection?)

Okay, second confession: I diverted a talkative guest at the funeral.

She shared her own griefs with me, fine, but we had migrated to stand directly in front of my mother’s casket, and I was feeling almost disrespectful to my mother, letting her yammer on. Everyone loves my brother, so…

“Have you spoken with Rod? I know he’d love to catch up,” I said.

Later:
“Did you talk to her?” he asked.
“Oh yes,” I said.
“I couldn’t get away from her.”
“Is that right?” I replied.

It’s a brother-sister thing. Trust me, I owe that brat some grief. I’m kidding. I owe him many things and none of them grief.

A delightful couple Barry and I love (and see too rarely) came with family news I’m not sure they’re sharing yet, but it was joyous. They are hilarious and sparkly, and I was so glad to see them.

(Two baby squirrels are playing in the yard. They’re mirroring each other. The birds just joined them. By themselves, and adjacent to.)

Someone sent us a gorgeous wind chime. Another gave us an ornate lantern with the sweetest sentiment. Tangible offerings that will likely live on the sunporch but will require opening the windows to sound the chimes, of course. Great by me.

Zack and I talked about poetry and songwriting. He read my poem about my mom and said it was interesting to watch my growth as a writer. I…didn’t know he’d been watching my writing at all.

“Your poem doesn’t rhyme,” he said, “I have a problem with my poetry rhyming.”

“I don’t think rhyming is a problem. It’s just a choice,” I said.

He mentioned struggling with verses in songwriting, too; he can write a hook, but the verses stall out, he said.

“Try taking your hook and expanding on what it is saying with examples as verses,” I said. It seemed to help. Not applicable in all cases, but a place to start? He liked the solution.

(Round five. You’re earning quite the breakfast, friend. Don’t think I didn’t see you slow down at the corner. Do running shoes, like bikes, have brakes?)

All of these little things, these moments and more, are what held me together.

There were tears, of course. So many. But also:

I fixated on the crooked hardware on my mother’s casket graveside.

“Do you see that?” I asked Barry.
He’s in quality control; I’m sure he did.

As the graveside service continued (may I gently suggest we consider a tighter format for next time?), I found myself wondering about the person who assembled the casket. Were they distracted? At the end of their shift? Or did they think, “It’s going in the ground—no one will notice”?

That would sting the most.

Then again, maybe it happened in transit. Pallbearers jostled it. Accidentally, of course.

It gave me something to mull over and to feel indignant about other than the fact that we were about to abandon my mother. Something other than grief. Something other than the ground.
Something like: I’m giving her back to my father and sister, not just losing her.

(Sorry, I don’t know when the jogger gave up, because I went indoors shortly after Round 5. But I see him at the café frequently, and I will ask him there how long he went. He’s a music professor at our local university, and he was disappointed to hear that my husband and I went to an Adrian Belew concert a few years ago that he hadn’t heard was coming nearby. BTW, my kids always LOVED “Dinosaur” growing up.)

Random words to end on, I know, but I feel grief sneaking back in. I think it’s time I take it for a ride.

P.S. I was able to sneak a partially obstructed view of one of the squirrels. Enjoy!