My brother
and I miss my mother. She was a very
gentle person that truly deserved the best of things. Little things would make her happy – a lovely
warm ripe tomato – the tiny purple flowers that would come up in the yard every
spring – a day to sit in the sun with her Dark Irish skin. She was someone you could please with simple
things.
After her
death ,I dreamt of her quite a bit; walking through the house, coming in the
door, sitting with a cup of coffee, but her head was always turned or always
bent in a way that would not reveal itself.
One dream I came very close to seeing her. She was turned around and I called out “Mom”
as she turned I couldn’t look, I shifted my eyes down but felt her presence all
around me. I suppose the heart just
wasn’t ready to see that she had moved on.
Still to
this day, my brother and I will text eachother if the mood strikes us right…a
sunny day? “Mom would have loved today!”
A great cup of coffee? “Mom loved a great cup of coffee!” a quiet moment
by a crackling fire? “I felt Mom.” And so on and so on it goes…
My family
vacationed on LBI (Long Beach Island – the ocean) in the years leading up to
her death. And she loved it there – she
loved where we stayed and how flat it was to walk (Being from Brooklyn walking
meant much) She loved the ice cream and
the sun. Neither my brother nor I can go
there and not think of her, it’s just
a part of that trip that we accept.
I went down
to LBI this past weekend to hang out with some cosmic friends known simply as
the Vagina Mafia. Saturday was a
glorious day after a winter of hard grays encased in ice. I walked there alone and sat on the sand. My friends are old friends from years ago and
are used to my eccentricities…I’m the one up at dawn having the spiritual
experience under a tree somewhere – I’m the one that will shower in the wee
hours outside in the dark with a hose or water bottles just to feel the air all
over me – I’m that strange friend they tell other people about and I notice
when I do meet new/old friends there is a certain ‘interest’ in my general
nature. I have come to a certain peace with
this. So it is to no one’s surprise that
I often go off alone, which is how I found myself on the beach that morning. I
watched the sun (which was quite strong for early April) dance on the waves and
take the damp chill from the ground beneath me.
I was thinking of everything and of nothing. I laid my black jacket out under me and lay
back – hair splayed out – arms behind my head – complete zen. Maybe it was the vibration of the waves under
the earth or just the sound of them, and the sun, and the clean scent of salt
wind, but I fell into a deep quick sleep…
When I awoke, a story my brother had told me
floated into my mind. I believe the ocean – the great energy – the earth
breathing – holds memories for you…. He and his wife were walking along the ebb
not long after mom died and his wife said “I was thinking about your mother.”
And John being John just nodded because he too had been thinking of her. They walked on a bit and as
the sea reaches for the beach and thins toward the sand, seemingly out of
nowhere, a spray of roses washed up at their feet. Mom’s name was Rose.
It could’ve
been a wedding wash-up from a ship, or a hotel nearby. Actually it could’ve been any number of
reasonable coincidences that washed that spray of flowers up at that exact
moment…but being Celts we know better.
Innately we accept the inexplicable ways of forces beyond what we are.
I stretched
and began to pick up my jacket. I looked
down the surf and saw something bobbing in the water. I turned to walk away and then I turned
back. I walked diagonally along the
beach ,and as I reached it the giving water thinned and moored a large glass
object on the wet sand. As I got closer
I realized it was an amber colored jug of sorts, roughly capped and half filled
with sandy water. The Indiana Jones in
me woke up! There could be a message
inside? Or something? I was intrigued and went over and picked it
up. Dry sand lay in patches on it and I
thought ‘What a miracle this thing had bounced around for who knows how long
completely intact!’ The jug handle wasn’t
cracked, the glass in good shape and a cap though rusted and rough was still on
there! I decided to show it to my
friends as I thought it quite a find.
I smiled at
the sea and began the two block walk back to the cottage where I was staying,
the streets were pretty much deserted save the sprinkling of local folks that
brave a salty winter. I felt like an
apocalyptic survivor with treasure. Part
way through my walk I decided to have a better look at the jug. I brushed off the sand and really looked at
it and what I saw gave me a pause of astonishment…
Old jugs
have the names of companies embossed in the glass… and those letters too were
intact… R.O.S.E. God is in the details...and apparently so is my mother.
Namaste
