Marion

5:30 a.m.  Just returned from the airport, dropping Dan off for a trip back east.  Yesterday at noon, Dan's mother, my mother-in-law, my children's beloved grandmother died.  She was 93 years old, but two days before she died had her nightly rum and lime, and this time last year she was in Scandinavia, judging and attending a dog show.  Marion Hopkins was the grande dame of the Irish Water Spaniel breeders and she, literally, wrote the book on the breed.  She was also the Grande Dame of everything she touched.  She was the most modern old-fashioned woman I know.  She held to the old ways (spare the rod, spoil the child and that sort of thing), but was very forward thinking when it came to politics, women's rights, and "just getting on with life."  The stories are stuff of legend and she has been -and will remain - iconic in our lives and our minds.

It's so hard to think about Dan arriving at her house - where she has lived since he was in high school - and her not being there.  It will feel as though she just went out to the store.  Everything will be as she left it.  93 years old and still living in her own house!  She was living proof that age is just a number.  Her steps and her life will echo through the house.  Her chair, her bed, her notes by the telephone - all signs of a life lived to the last moment.

It is little comfort, though, when well-meaning friends say "well - 93 - that's a good, long life."  Yes, it's true, but that doesn't help with the loss.  Doesn't take away the sorrow and the giant hole that her death has created in our existence.  Never to hear her voice.  Never to see her twinkling eyes.  Never to sit at her table and enjoy a meal with her (minding our manners the entire time....)!

When a person dies, the world changes - for a time.  I drove home from work yesterday after hearing the news.  It was early afternoon, and people were going about their business, walking, running, sipping coffee in to-go cups.  Life was continuing for all, but I felt a shade removed from it and wondered how someone this important to me could have passed from this world and still everyone out there was carrying on as though nothing had changed.  When I got home, Julia, my 18-year-old who has been struggling with death and issues surrounding it, her eyes red-rimmed and slightly wet, said, "I'm okay.  At first I felt numb, but then I forced myself to feel it.  And I noticed that everything is still happening.  People are still doing things and life is continuing.  But Grandma is gone and that's what is different."  Yes.  That's it.  Life does continue, both here and beyond in a way that we will not know until it's our turn. 

Sarah came home last night as well. A friend covered her shift so she could mourn and be with us.  It's good to know that my daughters have friends to care for them.  We all went to Dan's brother's apartment, raised a glass of rum and lime to Marion, Mom, Grandma - and toasted a great woman - strong, elegant, formidable - I only hope that my daughters are even a little bit like her as they grow older.  Keep her as a standard and reach for it, girls!  All will be well.

Chasing the Sun

When the sun set tonight I had an urge to run toward the horizon and peek over the edge to see where it had gone. 

As it sets and disappears from my sight, somewhere someone is turning toward the east and watching it come up over a hill and begin its journey across that sky.  I think of the book "A Little Prince" whose illustrations always show the main character, standing on the planet which is not much bigger than he is, and which he could walk around if he chose.  And I find myself wishing I could do that, too.  Chase the sun around the earth.  Watch it shine on other surfaces.  Until I end up back here.  And then let it go.

It's a crazy feeling to think that the reason the sun is sinking beneath the horizon, is actually that we are moving up and away from the sun.  The sun is staying perfectly still.  We are riding backwards on a giant ferris wheel.

All is calm, all is bright.

Yes, Christmas IS over.  I have been baffled as to why I feel it so acutely this year.  Why am I crying so much, grieving so much?  What is it?  Normally, I am relieved when all the madness has passed.  I love the post-Christmas time. 

I was pondering this, baffled and weepy, when it struck me.  This was the last Christmas when both my daughters will be living at home.  This time next year, Sarah will be living in her own apartment and Julia will have moved out to attend college.  Instead of waking up with them in the house, they will be coming home for Christmas - possibly sometime late morning!  Oh...  maybe they will come home for Christmas eve and spend the night.  But they might not.  It will be their choice.  I hope they will choose to be with us on Christmas Eve but I can no longer hang on to that expectation - especially for Sarah.

Here's the tricky part.  Accepting whatever it is they decide.  Not being disappointed.  Not taking it as a personal affront to the years I spent creating a sense of holiday in the house.  Not interpreting it as a rejection, but celebrating it as a graduation to a different phase of our family life.

On Christmas Day, I looked out the window of the boat and saw our neighbor's adult children walking down the dock towards their boat, arms laden with packages and smiles lighting up their faces.  That's nice, I thought.  I can get used to that.  Imagine the joy of hearing the knock on the door and knowing "they're here!"  Especially if their lives are productive and happy and independent.  Yes - that will be good.  Dan & I will spend the morning preparing a lovely brunch.  Gifts will have been wrapped - not in secret - but out in the open the night before.  It will be good.  It will....

To tell the truth, the last few years in the house, I found myself decorating the tree by myself, quite sad that the kids had better things to do and absolutely zero interest in oohing and aahhhing over the cherished ornaments.  It was winding down already, but I was holding on to it for dear life.  Especially as I knew the house sale was inevitable.

This year I asked, "does anyone want to bake Christmas cookies?"  (Both girls are trying to avoid wheat and both are working on maintaining a healthy weight - especially during the holidays.)  "Nah," came the reply.  I was not disappointed.  Not at all.  I was relieved.

I think I am going to like this.  I think I've been waiting for it for a long time.  A holiday where we are adults and we enjoy each other as such.  When the grandchildren come, I may steal them away for a  bit to resurrect some of the fun.  But for now - this is just fine.

Hold that thought.