Loss has a way.
Reaching into your chest in its icy way, Loss has a way of grabbing hold of your heart and clutching it with a cold hand.
Loss has a way of escaping that closet that took nearly two years for you to stuff it into, trying desperately to make sure all of its dark corners remain pushed inside. Not sticking out.
Yesterday, an email appeared in my inbox. My mother, who passed away two years ago in April, left behind two sisters- my aunts. Apparently, one of them had recently run across a beautiful and eloquent card my mom had written, dated July 11, 2016. My aunt had scanned it and emailed it to me.
Casting my eyes on the familiar handwriting, I simultaneously felt frigid fingers begin to grip my heart, a discomforting lump form in my throat, water press into my tear ducts. But while none of this felt physically pleasing, my memory and brain did finally arrive, coming to my rescue. My mother’s words, as I read them…they were her. Generous. Kind. Funny. And so loving.
Suddenly an image of her arose into my mind’s eye. And as I read the last words on the card:
Love you Peg. You are a special wonderful person. Love, Donna
This was my mom. Even though she’d sent an everyday thank you card, she never forgot to be herself. The fingers warmed. Perhaps it was no longer Loss gripping my heart.
Perhaps it was my mom holding it.
Your writing gripped my heart in a similar way that loss wrapped its clutches around you. How bittersweet it must’ve felt to see something your mom has written to your aunt.
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Lanny, I so appreciated your post today. Those cold fingers…I feel them often lately. We both know, though, the benefit of feeling and memory. Both are restorative. I can’t go to the Met without thinking about my friend. But those memories are precious.
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The personification of kids at the beginning was so good. The image of stuffing it into the closet showed its magnitude. Your ending was sweet.
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*loss
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What a lovely reflection. I am hoping her words gave you an extra boost of great memories.
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As a widow I know the power of seeing the handwriting of a loved one. It evokes such memories and yes the sight of their printed words brings them closer to your heart.
Thanks for sharing.
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Wow…”Reaching into your chest in its icy way, Loss has a way of grabbing hold of your heart and clutching it with a cold hand.” You nailed it. Love how you ended with a glimpse at the handwritten note. I don’t think our children have a sense of how precious those can be. A text, an email…they’ll never compare with the piece of ourselves that is reflected in those handmade squiggles. Thanks for this beautiful slice.
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Having lost both of my parents I completely understood your description of the icy grip and then how it softened when you imagined your mom holding it.
I deeply long for moments when I reconnect with my parents.
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What a gift, this digital gift carried itself to you after over a year…thank you for sharing this moment.
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This post touched me. My sister is struggling now with being a widow; it’s been 18 months. She is finding happiness and peace but still listens to his voicemails.
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Your Slice came at a perfect time for me-I wrote about my mom this morning, as well. I love how you referred to, “perhaps it was my mom holding it”. While loss can be so difficult to face, I believe our brains can and do ultimately arrive as well. Thank you for sharing.
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Oh yeah. I know that feeling. Your words seized at my heart. Tears formed. That heavy feeling grew and then you celebrated. I have a little pack of cards and the last email my mom sent me saved away too.
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So beautiful. I think your slice is comforting to many as we all know this feeling in some way. Thanks for your ultimate vulnerability.
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Loss can be bitter sweet. Bitter when we still miss them so much. (Your description of the pain is so powerful.) Sweet as we have such good memories and images of our dear ones to carry around with us.
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What a powerful slice, from the beginning to the end. I lost both of my parents, my dad less than a year ago. I didn´t asked for anything that was left in their house but their letters, old photos and my mom´s diary. I am not quiet ready to immerse myself again in their written legacy, but every time I see their handwritings, I imagine them holding a piece of paper or a sitting in front of an Underwood typewritter.
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You capture the deep, frigid chasm of loss so well.
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I copied one of my mother’s letters to me and wrapped it around a book I assigned myself to read after her death.
I haven’t yet started it — I’ve allowed myself to get distracted. Thank you for the reminder to bring my mother closer.
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