Line

What is it about a line that begs you to choose one side or the other? As if standing on it is not enough. Not good enough. I’ve been on a line since autumn and know how hard it is to step over it. To make that decision to leave where I am and leap across. I’m not convinced one side is better than the other. But for peace of mind, maybe one is.

Folks who walk a tightrope may feel the line they’re on is safe haven. But they’re one misstep from a place they don’t want to go. Being uncomfortable is something that happens on solid ground, not just in the air.

Bobbe died in November. And I’ve experienced a motherlode of emotions and mood swings ever since. It was easy to accept her passing into the next place. I was there. That much is a gift I’ll forever cherish. In the months that followed, family and faith have allowed me to close the books on my mom’s life, though they remain on my bureau for the times I need to reread a chapter.

One last part involves her stone. The words on it. The contract that makes it real. Giving the people at Bloomfield-Cooper my Visa card. Shit like that. It’s been some six surreal months of feelings. And getting a marker is part of closure. Yuck.

I’m balancing on a line I don’t want to fall from. But I have to. On one side there’s the full life I have with a mother always there to love and nurture me. To make me feel validated. On the other side there’s the memory of it all. And spending the rest of my life trying to not let go.

All This By Hand
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