A few thoughts to ease my pain from the hardest night of my life:
I'm sitting in one of her favorite places, the low metal swing on the back brick patio, doing two of her favorite things.
Listening to the orchestra of night sounds. And thinking.
Of Mom.
Of how I wish she were here. Cancer free. Pain free. For just one more night.
How do you say goodbye to the person who introduced you to the world and convinced you that you could conquer it?
How do you handle the hurt after losing the woman who felt your every pain and basked in your every triumph?
How do you say goodnight, Mom, for the last time?
I'm thinking of the time she was watching my 3-year-old son Kanon and worrying about my 5-year-old son Kaiser, who was undergoing test after test as my wife and I and the doctors struggled to understand the cause of his sudden illness.
That's when Charles Barkley called the house.
Mom explained in great and frightened detail why I was at the hospital to a man she didn't know. She shared her fears as she would to an old friend.
Charles being Charles, he comforted her at a time when she just needed someone to listen and tell her it would be OK.
It was. For years, whenever Charles and I spoke, he would ask, "How's Mom?" I would tell her later, and she would beam and retell the story.
Mom didn't care about your name. She cared about your heart.
Hers was so big, she worried over every step my brother and I and her grandsons took and every bite we ate. We got regular updates on all the latest dietary hazards.
She had a paralyzing fear of snakes, but that didn't stop her from rescuing the baby bluebirds in the tree outside her kitchen window from the serpent slithering in their direction. She then nursed them in a shoebox.
Mom would've loved a night like tonight, the air brisk enough to stir, the tiny creatures playing their song, a dog barking down the street. No one loved dogs more.
She would've sat in this swing and contemplated the issues of her family and the world at large, her mind racing like the old junker with questionable brakes careening downhill back home in her beloved Pennsylvania.
Mom taught us many things, but mostly, she taught us to think for ourselves -- and to care about others. Walking through the house on the day she died, something struck me for the first time. Of the dozens and dozens of family photos covering every possible space, there are only a handful of her.
She lived her life for all of us.
For the first time in far too long, after enduring pain I can't fathom, she's at rest now in a better place, at home with her Lord, which is the only solace I can find. Goodnight, Mom, and thank you. For teaching me the beauty and the power of words, for showing me the joy of a low metal swing on a loud and silent night.
I love you. I miss you. You'll always be my angel.
