Rise Up Singing, Even Still

"One of these mornings you're gonna rise up singing
And you'll spread your wings and fly to the sky
But till that sweet morning, there ain't nothin' can harm you
With mama and daddy standing by"
 - Summertime, by George and Ira Gershwin


A phrase drifted into my mind - 'the last vestiges of grief'. I turned it over, examining it. I imagined a silk scarf fluttering in the wind, held onto by fingertips which finally committed to the release, allowing it to blow swiftly and gracefully away. Then I wondered, Is there actually ever last vestiges of grief? I don't think so. Much as we'd like, I don't think it will flutter away like a silk scarf if we are finally able to let go. I think it remains, like a bit of blurriness in the corner of a lens, overlooked or forgotten most of the time as time allows, yet in some moments tinting or even obscuring all else.

I was thinking about grief because of Mother's Day. I have so many friends my age who have lost their mothers or fathers or both, as both my parents have. One of the first frights of childhood is learning that the people you love will one day die, and that you will die, and all in all you'll be without the people who are your entire world. Even so, you rationally think, "My parents can't die, they're my parents. They're eternal, and so am I." In moments you get scared that this isn't true, but the resiliency of youth reassures you, "It's other people's parents and pets, other kids; not my family, not me." As you grow you understand more of how the world works, but understanding doesn't equal coming to peace with it. It doesn't equal fairness. When you lose a parent, I'd imagine you still wonder how someone who was supposed to always be there for you could be gone. They were supposed to be there for all the things. They weren't supposed to get so frail. They were supposed to remain as the oldest generation above you. They weren't supposed to die, leaving you to be the grown up all on your own.

I once babysat a child who was actively afraid of death. One night in particular I put her down for bed, and out she came, tears flowing down her cheeks, whispering between hiccups about her fear. How to soothe her about something which is inevitable? I held her and talked to her and did my best, enough to help her fall asleep. There were many nights she couldn't fall asleep, but that one was the worst. I think about her from time to time, wondering how she is now. She's a teenager. Have her fears faded/changed/become more manageable? How does she cope now? She struck me as someone with an active mind, an overly vivid imagination, and though it was tedious to have her come out of her room so many nights, my heart ached for her. As a child, I feared lightning strikes and home invaders. I certainly thought about death, but the thought of heaven was a balm, and if I was nervous I'd eventually fall asleep dreaming of a kingdom of clouds.

Once, our parent's parents were children who learned about death. Some learned early on about grief, at three or nine or eighteen, losing parents or other loved ones. Some weren't dashed against that rock until much later in life, yet still it came, onward as a force no armor can protect against. Last vestiges? No, only in wishful thinking. But there are gentler ones. There are fond memories which don't ache as sharply. There are days when the lens is clear, no blurriness in the corner to distract, just a general thankfulness for life despite the grief it contains.

To all who have lost mothers and other loved ones; you are seen. To all who wish to be mothers, who dream of soothing a frightened child to sleep, their own child, and haven't had that chance; you are seen. Grief has no last vestiges, it simply is. Less, and not, and simply there. Don't think you're alone in the grieving, waiting for it to depart. Let it be, and know: you are seen.