When I wake up in the morning, I don’t get up right away. I stay in bed and pet Charlie and think about things a bit.
This morning memories of Abi filled my thoughts. I didn’t cry. I just turned the pages of my memory and saw images of her there, silly girl that my sweet Abi was.
I remember how, every little bit, she would raise her head while resting next to me on the couch. She’d look up at me as if to say: “Everything all right, Mom?”
I would pat her head and tell her everything was okay. Then she’d lay her head back down and go back to sleep.
I remember, in the middle of the night, the warm press of her body against my back.
I remember how she’d follow me from room to room, not letting me out of her sight. How she’d throw a wall-eyed hissy fit if it appeared I was about to go out somewhere.
So many memories.
I don’t wear jewelry. Just a wrist watch when I go out. But it occurred to me that these memories are like precious pearls.
They are gathered around my neck and invisible to the naked eye. I feel the weight of them there, the heat warm against my skin, and it comforts me.
My memories truly are as precious as pearls.
Sometimes the memories cut so deep they take my breath away.
I will never take my pearls off. I like the way they gently press against my skin and remind me of Abi.
From The Healing & Loss Book, May:
“I cannot know where you are going, but I hold the lamp of my love aloft to accompany you on your way.”
“Her love is everywhere. It follows me as I go about the house, meets me in the garden, sends swans into my dreams. In a strange, underwater or above earth way I am very nearly happy.” – Sylvia Townsend Warner
“In a world of such beauty as birds in flight, surely I can come to feel at home again, even after my loss. And if, in thought, I attach myself to birds in flight, who knows where that may take me?”
“The warm air makes me dream of what was, and of what would be if you were here. I know that this dream is but an inaptitude to live the present. I allow myself to drift on this current without looking too far or too deep. I await the moment when I will find my strength again. It will come.” – Anne Philipe