The gentle chimes tinkled softly in the peaceful room. I rolled over, reached for my phone, and muted the ethereal tones. I pushed myself to an upright position, swung my legs over the edge of the bed, and slowly opened my eyes. It was early. Earlier than I typically rise. The sun was just beginning to brighten the morning sky, and the birds had begun a chorus of lighthearted chirping. I suppressed a yawn as I silently crept to the closet, tossed my pajamas in the hamper, and hastily donned a pair of shorts and loose-fitting shirt. I simply wanted to be comfortable as I took this next step in my journey through grief.
I fastened the final button on my shirt and tiptoed from the dimly lit room. As I made my way to the fireplace mantle, my thoughts were of my mom – her beautiful smile, her silky hair, her playful spirit. I picked up the crystal butterfly dish that had once belonged to her. I cradled it between my hands and shook my head. It had been nearly two years since her death, but it was still difficult to believe. I know healing takes time, and grief work is some of the most difficult work one will ever do. But there are still moments I feel overwhelmed, moments I struggle, moments I break down and cry. I now have more good days than bad, but it truly is a journey through grief. I headed toward the back of the house, quietly opened the door, and stepped outside. I wanted some time to myself; time to process my thoughts while remembering my mom.
The heaviness of the outside air took my breath away. I felt as though I were being smothered. Part of it was due to the humidity, but I knew my grief was also contributing to the burden. Beads of sweat began to form along my hairline. I grabbed a handful of wild curls, pulled them away from my face, and fashioned a messy bun on the top of my head. The relief was immediate. I sighed as a gentle breeze tickled the back of my neck.
I walked down the stairs and strategically positioned myself directly in front of the three basalt columns. Water bubbled from the tops of each stone and gently cascaded to the sparkling granite-filled reservoir. It was so peaceful. I let my gaze wander down the stone paths, through the tall and wispy grasses, and around the patio infused with colorful blossoms. It was breathtaking. I could not help but think how much my mom would have loved this little sanctuary.
At that moment, a gentle splash captured my attention. My gaze returned to the fountains. There in the cool water sat a charming little bird, slightly ruffled from her watery landing. She eyed me cautiously.
“It is okay, little one. Enjoy your bath,” I whispered.
She fluttered. She splashed. She playfully enjoyed the space. I grinned as I watched the impromptu performance. My mom loved birds. She would have taken great pleasure in this moment. I inhaled sharply as my stomach lurched. That shattered feeling in the pit of my stomach still hits me when I least expect it.
I think of her every day. I picture her face when I am happy, content, and thankful. I feel her presence when I am anxious, overwhelmed, and frightened. She is the air I breathe, the blessings I have been given, and the whispers of encouragement I need. She gives me my wings.
I rose from the step and delicately removed the cover from the crystal dish. There, nestled together, were the many little feathers, tiny little feathers, that had crossed my path at times when I needed her the most. Those moments when I acutely felt her absence. The feathers were like little kisses from her. They gave me comfort. I treasured each one and placed them temporarily in the butterfly dish. When the dish reached capacity, I released them, desperately hoping they would find their way back to her. Another release was what I had planned for this early morning. A simple ritual to give me comfort and contribute to my healing.
As if on cue, the wind grew stronger. The feathers swirled and lifted from the dish. Collectively, they began to dance, a beautiful but short-lived dance. Then, one by one, they separated. Each feather an important part of the whole, but each with its own story. As the last of the feathers disappeared into the early morning sky, I felt a sense of peace. I thoughtfully replaced the fragile cover, tilted my face toward the rising sun, and whispered, “I love you, Mom.”