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Autumn was my mother's favorite time of year. It's mine too but I'm not sure I know anyone who loves the fall as much as she did. The only thing I hate about fall is that it inevitably turns to winter. I have been without my mother for ten years now. In some ways it has seemed like several lifetimes and in other ways, it seems like the blink of an eye. I miss her----mostly for selfish reasons. I know I never thanked her enough for all the things she did and for the person she was. I know that she makes me a better person, even now.
The pain of her loss is different now. It is not as sharp and it allows me to more reflective: to feel her presence more, to call on her for help, or to show her the person I or my children have become.
This time of year, though, has always been difficult for me. The leaves turning red and orange and yellow and golden and then falling. The smell of winter coming and the way the air has turned cold. These were her last best days. There were a few weeks there, at the end, where things became calm. There were no more doctors or radiation or running after an impossible cure. There was simply staying home and being together and talking and watching the leaves turn. I remember holding her hand during that time and realizing how much my own hands look like hers. I still sometimes stare my hands and try to remember hers. We had talks during that time that I loved, that I treasure.
My mother stayed with us through the long, beautiful fall that year. The snow started falling just three hours after she died on a Sunday morning. It was officially winter.
I know winter is coming. It is right around the corner. I don't hate the winter like I used to but I hate for the autumn to end. It seems that every day I wonder, if today is the last good day.
It never is.
