When you suddenly feel it... the expanse of ridiculous gaping hole, now infinite. There are no more mothers. You were the last. The Matriarch. The Glue that held my family history together. The Center. And now there is just Space where you used to be.
Your artist soul carries through space and time and genetics! We are surrounded by the beauty and always will be. If only a painting could hug.
The inspiration of your life story must be a lesson to the rest of us. To survive what you survived to tell the story so many others couldn't. Your love story, the genesis of all of us. What an honor to come from you. How many stories were left untold?
I never called. You never called. We were the ones who didn't call. But I know you loved us immensely and you knew we loved you the same. I do have regrets, but there is no purpose there, just a hole. I have a lifetime of memories and love from you.
The things that linger with us--sensory things. Smells and sights and flashes of insignificant yet so significant memories. Childhood parties when all the people still lived and came. Relentless, unyielding optimism and sheer force of will for life at the forefront of it all; the model for us all. Your carpet, your couch, your smell, the coffee maker, the orchids on the fireplace, the hot tub, a drink in the backyard before it got too cold to stay outside. Sleeping over the night before an early flight or during a conference in SF. Painting with the children. Piano recitals.
The humor! How we used to lead you astray mid-conversation just for entertainment! Such an effective story-teller--captivating no matter the topic. You never lost your laugh, no matter how hard life was for you. May we never lose our laughter.
What do we do now? We mothers who remain... With everything
in our blood and bones from you? How can we carry on in your image? How do you live on in our hearts and minds? In the art, and the smells, and the flashes of memories, and the spirit of life-to-be-lived that you embodied. Every day. Forever.
I love you Oma.
