Day 26

Walked all around Logan Airport because we went to the wrong terminal with Matthew this morning, on his way to Dakar, Senegal, by way of Washington D.C., so had to trek excitedly to Terminal C from Terminal A and then sadly back again once we had said our goodbyes. 

I also did some acrobatics at Angelina's birthday party, leaping from a swinging rope into a pit filled with foam cubes, which was lovely, until I found myself flailing around to try to get out of them again, trying hard not to look like a grounded beetle desperately attempting to regain its balance and decorum, and failing miserably, and losing my socks in the process, if beetles wore socks.

The gorgeous Angelina and Tim after her party.

 Today is the eighth anniversary of my mother's death.  And I watch  Matthew walk off down the concourse through airport security as he leaves on a study-abroad programme to Senegal for four months. 

And so there is all this high emotion, phenotype inherited from my mother (and others of my kin, no doubt),  nurtured by her, exemplified by her.  The great passions, the depths of despair, the whole high-flying ecstatic tumult. 

Making for a difficult day, watching my son fly away, physically and metaphorically, embarking on a brilliant adventure, but still my chick, hard to lift my wing and let him launch himself to such a far away destination, but necessary, perfect.

My beautiful boys, still the chicks to my Mother Hen.

And remembering my mother, brief moments of memories, like photographs in an album: singing nursery rhymes together in the car, soft warm cuddles in her bed in the morning, bright flashing smile as I finish reading her a James Thurber story, eyes crinkling with humour.  Bringing a chameleon she had found in the garden, on her hand all the way upstairs to my sick-room, when I was about ten, with great distaste written on her face.  So that I realised at that very specific moment in my life, how much she loved me.  She was doing something so alien to her disposition, just for me, her very ill lover of chameleons.

My mother and my daughters.

My mother hanging out the white bed-sheets so that they smelled of sunshine when you slipped into them at night.  My mother crying softly at the window, tears running down her soft cheeks for the death of our ancient old dog, the end of an era.  My mother falling and breaking bones, sinking into a shocking depression.  My mother, maker of lace and beautiful knitted garments.  My mother having a loud and passionate argument with my father on the top of Mount Pilatus in Switzerland, boldly ignoring our hushing and the sideways glances of others.  My mother, complicated human being, filled with  love for all her many progeny.  My mother skinny-dipping late in life.  My mother being kind to people.  And unkind to people.  My mother breaking her hip and lying lost in a bed in a hospital, the hospital where I was born 50 years before.  My mother giving up to Death with his ugly sickle, who took longer than she had expected, teasing her with pain, with agony, as is his wont, making her suffer.  Eventually he claimed her weakened bones, and also her strong heart. 

So tonight I miss my mother with my whole aching being.  I miss my son.  I miss all my chicks and grand-chicks too. 

And I ask the winds of the grand Atlantic Ocean to waft my son safely to his destination, the city of Dakar in Senegal where he will learn so much.