The Hardest Goodbye

The familiar whistle of my copper tea kettle snaps me back to reality. I robotically go through the motions: open my pale green cupboard, carefully select a tea with the highest caffeine content in the hopes it will rouse me, rip open the packet, and gently place it in my “conquer the day” mug. How ironic. You see, today is the day of my mother’s funeral. How does one conquer that? I pour the scalding water into the mug, and as it begins to steep, I think back on the long road that brought me to this day.  The scent of licorice fills the air, awakening my senses.

There have been many miles traveled between many different doctors and surgeons. There have been endless tests and procedures, countless chemotherapy infusions, and a five hour operation to remove the malignant tumor that she almost did not survive. Terminal. That’s what we were told when this journey began 4 years ago.

I take my first sip a little preemptively, and instantly burn the roof of my mouth. A nice, albeit brief distraction.  

Her death was not a surprise. I’d been given the opportunity to prepare for this, a gift some individuals are not granted before losing a loved one. But how does anyone prepare themselves to never see their mother again? To say one final goodbye to the woman who brought you into this world, and raised you to be the person you've become? These are questions everyone asks, but yet no one has ever been able to adequately answer. 

I stare blankly out of my kitchen window, clutching the warm mug with both hands. I do find comfort in its warmth, and the faint scent of florals and honey. I continue to sip my tea as I attempt to focus my attention on my backyard. It’s small, but it’s quite quaint. Just how I like it. I’ve let the yard go as of late, there were more pressing issues at hand.  Doing so has resulted in my very own mini- meadow of wildflowers, cattails, and grass that has grown almost up to my waist. I can spot some classic yellow black eyed susans, orange marigolds, and a handful of sunflowers, but the main occupant of this patch of earth is the dandelion.  I should pull the weeds, and I should mow the lawn, but I find beauty in its imperfection, and its refuge for the critters who now live there.

 As I take my last sip of the now lukewarm black tea, I spot a single daisy right in the center of the yard. My mother’s favorite flower. Some may call it a coincidence, but to me it feels more like a sign from the universe. I manage to smile. 

Now that my mug is empty, I have no choice but to make my way upstairs to change out of my old oversized college sweatshirt with a hole in the sleeve and into black dress. I tug open the top drawer of the large maple wood dresser my father built for me the year I moved out of my

 family home. It’s hard to believe that was almost 15 years ago. I pull out my very plain and very long black dress. It’s slightly wrinkled from being tucked away for this occasion, but I don’t care enough to iron it. Not today. I pull the dress down over my head and shoulders, and let gravity do the rest. I slip on my black ballet flats over my bare feet, comb my wavy brunette hair, and lastly clasp the necklace my mother gave me around my neck. It’s a white gold heart, with the inscription “I love you” on its side. My emerald birthstone in the center. I steady my own breathing as I make my way back down the creaky, wooden stairs. After all, I have somewhere to be. There’s no time to fall apart now.

I drive alone in silence to the church. No music, no podcasts, no audiobooks. Just the sound of the wind hissing through my cracked window. Typically, this would drive me mad, but today I let my thoughts wander. 

I drive through our small town, only 2 roads that intersect at the town square, and think of how different it is now, but also how it's the same. My favorite bakery is still there, along with my favorite book store, however the shop that always caught my attention, the one I’d find myself in the most, closed its doors for the last time many years ago. It was a metaphysical shop called “Your Inner Light”, it was very taboo for its time, yet I always found it fascinating. I would analyze their crystals, scour through their spell books, and study their tarot card decks. It has since been replaced by a gourmet grocery store that sells olive oils and balsamic vinegars. What a shame.

As I continue to drive I reflect on how religion can often act as a barrier between family members who believe in God, and the ones who choose a more unconventional route, whatever that may look like.  One thing I never doubted was how blessed I was to have had a mother who gave her life to God, yet never pressured me to do the same. Who let me discover and create my own beliefs, without judgement. I personally know others who weren’t quite as lucky.

I pull into the parking lot of the small church, the one I went to as a child, and see people I recognize, and people that I don’t, make their way inside. I park my car, turn off the ignition, and take a deep breath. I make my way inside, avoiding eye contact with all of the funeral attendees, not wanting to partake in small talk or hear their sympathies. I know they are sorry, I do not need to hear it. I spot my father and brother talking to some extended family we haven’t seen in years, but I decide to go right into the sanctuary to take my seat. Immediate family must sit in the first pew, where I find myself staring at the closed deep mahogany casket before me.

I must have zoned out for some time, because suddenly the pastor makes her way to the podium, and I am surrounded by those I love most. My father is seated to my right, my brother to my left. My husband, children, and closest friends are behind me.  They each know that all I need at this time is to be left alone, so they grant me that. Tears threaten to escape my eyes with each touch, with each glance, and with each “I’m so sorry for your loss”, so words are better left unspoken, and touches left untouched. 

The pastor greets everyone, and proceeds to read a bible scripture that I am unfamiliar with. Something about being blessed in my mourning.  I respectfully disagree. During her sermon she focuses on the celebration of life, and brings to light all the work my mother has done for women in the church. The fight for equal opportunity and respect amongst the men who hold most of its power. One, among many, qualities I will always admire of my mothers was that she always used her voice. Even when others did not approve, or didn’t like what she had to say. It's a quality I lack, but one that I have been striving to instill in my daughter. I should really learn to take my own advice.

After what seemed like an eternity, but in actuality couldn't have been more than 40 minutes, the sermon was coming to a close. My only request for my mother’s funeral was that it ended with the song “Supermarket Flowers,” by Ed Sheeran. I hear the piano begin to play through the speakers, and as he sings “I took the supermarket flowers from the windowsill, I threw the day-old tea down the sink,” all of the tears I had trapped so tightly beneath my swollen eyelids begin to fall, slowly at first, but once they start, it’s impossible to slow them.  The church is silent as the song continues to play. The focus solely on the words that are being sung..

“Hallelujah

You were an angel in the shape of my mum

You got to see the person I have become

Spread your wings and I know

That when God took you back

He said, Hallelujah, you’re home”

I dismiss everyone’s condolences, dodging their attempts to hold me and to hug me, as I force my way down the aisle to the back of the church. I don’t take my eyes off the glowing red of the exit sign. I need to get out. To escape the overwhelming sadness that has filled this small room. My breathing quickens. I push the door open using all of my strength, and breathe in the outside air, filling my lungs. It smells of spring and recent rain, giving me instant relief. I decide at that moment that I am not going to witness her burial or attend the funeral reception. Neither of those events are for me, they are for everyone else.

I speed back home the way I came, back through the town I grew up in. A constant flow of tears still streaming down my reddened cheeks. It feels as if a lifetime has passed since I woke up this morning, and in a way it has. I’ve had a lifetime of  memories rotating around my mind since I opened my eyes, like a personalized slideshow that I can’t stop.  I’ll take it though. Most of my memories are good ones.

I saunter over to the stove, and carefully push the knob while turning it counter clockwise, igniting the flame. I once again carefully select my tea, but this time decide on a decaf with chamomile and hints of lemon. Sleep. I yearn for it. As the water begins to heat, I quickly go upstairs to change back into the oversized sweatshirt I slept in last night, and splash cold water on my face. 

When I hear the distant whistle increase in volume, I go back down to the kitchen. I turn off the stove, and pour the boiling water into the same “conquer the day” mug I used mere hours earlier when that sentiment felt impossible. But here I am, the hardest day of my life thus far behind me. 

I pick up my freshly brewed herbal tea, wrap myself in the grey cashmere blanket that I always use, and collapse into my chaise lounge, curled up with my grief. As I watch the steam rise from the cup, and smell traces of lemon, I start to feel lighter. More centered. I ponder as I sip my tea, bringing me to the conclusion that if I was able to muster the strength to conquer today, then I am more than capable of conquering tomorrow. And at this moment I feel at peace.

The End