Grief feels like fatigue. Or fatigue feels like grief. Regardless, I’m sinking into it. I have my mom’s voice playing on a loop- “Put your big girl pants on…it is what it is.”
But Mama, I don’t want to put my big girl pants on. I am tired from bones to heart to mind to spirit. Even though life gave her reason to, Mom didn’t throw herself any pity parties. She got up. Got on with it. Worked. Found those whose suffering was greater and offered help. Correction, she didn’t offer help, she just helped. She showed up, until she couldn’t. Mainly, she dug her hands into the soil. Her gardens were her primary source of solace, her healing salve.
I did it Mom… I pulled up my jeans and went to work. Mama loved seeing pictures of my floral work. She would gush and I would smile, feeling like 9 year old me winning a drawing contest. I will miss that. We used to joke that she could grow the flowers and I would then play with them. She also told me that in retirement, I would find my hands in the soil. We will see Mama.
