Nancy

Remembering her, again.
Trying to see thru her eyes.
Knowing "always we begin again".
That small book was in my jacket pocket
On that cold and gray December day
We spent in the hospital with her.
Not knowing.

That particular book, a treasure, unknown to her, was a gift she left for me.

"Nancy ", not Anne Cecilia, was what her many friends called her.
She had hundreds of friends.
A full and rich life in that way.

This photo of my Mom was taken in their family restaurant.
Seafood America.
She was 59 or 60, then.
Younger than I am now.

Those last years involved great, unforeseen, losses.
A failing business and the stress of debts.
Loss of most of their assets (other than their townhouse).
Her husband getting sick.
Not the golden years she dreamed of.
No summers at the Jersey shore visiting grandchildren.
No winters in Florida visiting friends.
No family dinners on Sundays.
No little picnics on 4th of July at Weymouth Place.
No real retirement.

I remember many moments with her,
In those last important and vital I years.
Remember both warm and intimate and special moments,
And the hard moments.

I learned to do "the hard things first" from her.
I am grateful for learning that.
I learned from her quiet grit.
Taking them to doctors.
Making a will with her.
Her asking me to manage her affairs.
Later, not closing her Vanguard money market account
For more than 10 years.
Not wanting time to end.

I remember being in the hospital alone with her before she left us.
Later, Patty came.
We both were there. numb, holding vigal, her Swiss guards.
Until the others came.

I saw "colors" in her eyes.
Another gift.
A rainbow in the sky as she was leaving.
And I sensed she knew she was not alone.

Today, I will carry her gift,
These images (and more), inside.
I will recall her invisible presence,
Remember her uniqueness.

Looking ahead, I have more to learn from her.
From her strengths.
And her woundedness.
No doubt about that.

Grateful for the special gift of "beginning again" that she left for me.
And the little book I had with me on that last day.
I still read that book.
She was my teacher, like Dad, and she transformed how I see.

She "made do".
Cared deeply for others.
Felt deeply.
Attended to all "the little things"
That give coherence to a life.

In the end, I saw she was "whole" (as the Jungians say).
"Whole" in the many ways we all yearn for.