My mother died a month ago today. In that time, I’ve gotten a lot of stuff done: I’ve met with attorney’s for her trusts, put her will through probate, transitioned her bank accounts to my name, paid-off and canceled credit cards, and taken thousands of dollars worth of her things to local charities. And yet I keep checking my email and physical mail and Facebook like I’m going to get some message from her.
I’m waiting for her to tell me how happy she is with all the sorting I’ve done in her garage.
I’m waiting for her to come over and help me sort family photos.
I’m waiting for her to have an opinion on what I should do with her fine jewelry.
I’m waiting for her to tell me how cute my wife’s nieces are playing with her costume jewelry.
I’m waiting for her to ask if I’ve sold her car yet.
I’m waiting for her to tell me what her discharge date is.
I’m waiting for the tears to flow through the wall of responsibility.
I’m waiting for people to stop saying they’re sorry for my loss.
I’m waiting for my obsession over my own life expectancy, retirement, and financial condition to turn down from eleven.
I’m waiting for my nightly headaches and restless sleep to fade into distant memory.
I saw my mother’s ashen face, unbelievably motionless, not look up at me, and yet its like I’m still waiting for her to wake up, thank me for all I’ve done over the last month, and tell me she loves me.
I’m still waiting.