Mourning Mom - A Series

My mom died last year and I continue to struggle with her relatively sudden death on a daily basis.  This journal entry was written from my perspective of my mom's last day.  Would love to hear what you think.  Thanks for reading.


Waking up from my morphine-induced haze, I felt the air first.  Cold. Wet. Quiet.  I knew she was here before she did.  I sensed her movement, her sadness, her breaking heart.  Strange, I'd never really been in tune with her before.  Not like this.

I knew she'd cry.  That one - my only girl - was a tough cookie on the outside but soft like marshmallow on the inside.

I felt her touch, smelled her scent.  I immediately sensed her quiet devastation.  Her emotional upheaval.  Her lack of self-restrain.

Her tears began slowly at first and increased quickly.  Quietly sobbing, I was suddenly torn from my inner peace to a sliver of pain in leaving my beautiful children.

Annie was always a hard worker, driven, strong.  We knew she'd grow up to be exactly who she was meant to be.  Exactly who she is.

She wrote rows and rows of letters on countless legal yellow pads as a child.  She worked so hard in school I knew she would go far.  Not that I encouraged her.  I told her to stop hanging with her rich friends.  I'm not sure why.  Was I afraid of my child having more success than me or any success at all?

Annie was never, not once, afraid to ask for what she wanted.  Peace, quiet, solace.  Forgiveness.  I knew these things are going through her mind.

I can sense her exhaustion as she silently crawls into bed with me.  I knew she grabbed the first plane she could and flew all night to get to me.  That's exactly what my Annie would do.  No matter that she had to leave a family to care for or a job, a big one, or a fundraiser for 300 guests.  At that very moment, as she said goodbye to me forever, I was so proud of my Annie.

What Inspires You to Write?

A very wise woman responsible for the indispensable parent handbook, Reviving Ophelia, Mary Pipher, believes that the desire to write, that a ha moment when you know exactly what your going to say and how you’re going to say it, is like a muse that must be acknowledged whenever and however it presents itself. No matter if I am doing the dishes or taking a bath or walking the dog.

My best story ideas usually dissipate with the bath water but I feel strangely drawn to the writing world these days and I am trying to appease the unknown presence in the universe that guides us and, for a change, listen to my god-given intuition.

Of course, I have many ideas, and leads and queries started, few completed. I am not sure if my inability to finish a project is tied to my inability to finish my thoughts or simply the result of a life well lived. Yes, I’m stalling – trying to remember what it was the muse wanted. Did she want me to finish my dream job cover letter or my blog or my query to O. In any case, as I listen as intently as I can to my soul, my wine glass is becoming increasingly empty and my stomach is growling.

I recently read that writer’s block isn’t so much that but rather other underlying issues that prevents us from completing our work. It isn’t that your blocked but rather that you hate your current project, or your life, but that’s another issue. And I can’t say for sure what exactly it is that I am destined to do with my gift to form a complete paragraph but I do not that I am drawn with such passion and desire to share myself with others, perhaps allow for a glimpse of my soul in hopes of catching a piece of theirs.

How about you? Why do you write? What inspires you?