It's Our Anniversary

I forgot that today was the second anniversary of my mom's death until 7:26pm this evening. At least I think it's the second anniversary, since time hasn't moved in a linear fashion since that July 2nd.

The day that she died, I put my head on her chest and heard the faint beat of her heart for the last time. The few of us who had gathered in her hospice room to say our final goodbyes said a prayer, and then waited patiently for the staff to clean her body and get it ready to be taken to the mortuary. Did you know that you have to have all of those little details like which mortuary will pick up the body, what you want them to do with the body, and what kind of services you want to hold all figured out by the time your loved one takes their final breath? The hospice center was great while we were there and she was still alive, but as soon as the life is gone from their body, they pretty much want you gone from their building and are very little help as far as guiding your next steps goes.

They asked if we wanted to see her once more before she was taken to the mortuary after she was clean and disconnected from the numerous lines that kept her sedated and helped to carry out the final functions of her body's various systems. At first, I said no. Absolutely not. I did not want to be in a room with what was essentially an empty vessel, devoid of feeling and consciousness, that looked exactly like my Mama. Then, my Aunt convinced me that I might regret it if I didn't, so, I entered the room and found what was supposed to be a small angel made of white linen, wrapped around a ball of fabric for the head and tied with a purple ribbon to look like a belted robe, placed upon her chest. The angel was made by a woman who created them to comfort everyone who considered themselves religious (in a Protestant sense), and we were informed that we could take it if we wanted. I remember small details like this, but only because that angel hangs on my closet door in my bedroom. It's difficult to keep track of moments that aren't attached to things I can physically see. I honestly don't remember exactly what happened next after I noticed it lying there on her chest, but I'm crying while typing this part so I will assume that my body responded similarly in that moment. What I do remember is her face, so peaceful, and a feeling of profound sadness that came over me that has yet to lift.

After arrangements had been made for care of my mother's body, I asked my sister if she wanted to get a beer. What else is there to do when you're reeling from a loss so big it could swallow you whole, but to go to the nearest hometown hipster bar and have an orange blossom pilsner? Again, I don't remember what was said, if anything. I have a faint memory of feeling out of place, though not in the way I've felt it before, and trying to look up at the stars but feeling hopeless, sitting on a picnic bench as far away as possible from the happy, drunk white folks who had no idea we'd just lost the most important person in our lives. We made the long drive to my Aunt's house after barely finishing our drinks. We slept in a bed upstairs in a room that used to be my cousin's, in a house that used to bring me so much joy and happiness, but now harbors memories of my first night without my mother on this Earth, her last Christmas, and the moment I looked at her and knew she was going to die.