19 July 2008
I've never lived a day without my mom until today. At 4 AM this morning my mother died. Her death comes some 82 odd years after her birth. While I wasn't there at 4, I was there until 3 and I'm convinced had I stayed with her through the night, she wouldn't have left my side. My guess is she needed her space and, like most mothers, didn't want to burden her son. The irony is near the end of her life when she needed my time and attention the most, she was nothing like the imposition I felt she had always been before. Instead, she was a blessing. And, she was the most beautiful I ever recall her being, save perhaps her wedding day (as illustrated in my photo section).
The parallels of birth and death have never been more apparent than in this process and the beauty of birth is the best illustration I can give of the beauty I've mentioned I see in her death. Though visually, the birth process is painful, bloody, mucusy and traumatic, I normally see the bigger picture as being amazing and miraculous; a moment where the supernatural and the natural collide, where the hand of God touches the hearts of men resulting in the miracle of birth. For me, specifically with my mom, death has been no different, absolutely glorious and startlingly beautiful, a moment where the supernatural and the natural collide, where the hand of God touches the hearts of men, where I cry "Goodbye" and God beams "Hello."
In short, my mother witnessed the miracle of my birth and the beauty of my life. I witnessed the beauty of her dying and the miracle of her death. And, as beautiful as both have been, they both fucking hurt.
