We've reached the one week mark. One week ago the funeral director arrived and took my mother "home". That's what he called it. His voice was warm and kind. He wasn't taking her "away", he was taking her "home". He called me by name and spoke as though he knew me. He was nothing less than tender and sympathetic, and I felt as if we were friends. It was only later that day, while half asleep at my daughter's house, that I was running the events of the morning through my mind. I was thinking of the impending meeting to fill out paperwork when I realized that I did know the man who so gently took my mother's body "home" that morning. I didn't know his family owned the funeral home, because he isn't in our group for that reason. He is in the group for the same kind of love and support he offered to me last week. An understanding heart and a listening ear when time and age take their toll on those we love. He is a gift, the man who took my mother "home," and I am grateful to God for sending him. It so easily could have been someone else.
It's settling in now, the ache of her absence. Yesterday morning I glanced through the open doorway into her room and realized I was subconsciously looking for her. This morning I heard the squeal of a hearing aide, but it was really the squeak of the gate surrounding the wood stove. I'm almost dreading the day her hospital bed is moved out of her room. It's going to leave a hole. The layers are slowly being peeled away and I'm missing her more and more.
Friday's Hunt "G."
2 hours ago