My mother is gone. She actually started to leave long before we realized the depth of her dementia, but when summer was just beginning, she left us for good. Now, before any winter has really begun, we stand in the drizzle outside the house that once we called home, knowing that every part of her is kept within. She is layered in so many beginnings, the beehives where bees no longer live, the dolls she started to make, the pieces of wood she never managed to turn into chairs, newspaper clippings, seedpods and snapshots. All her beginnings are waiting but only a few will ever be finished. Once we are finished we can begin again.
My sister and I have sorted to see what may be kept, what can be sold or given away or mostly turned into ash. This is our beginning which is really to end my mother’s ambitions and consists of so many knots that needs to be tied to stop our fabric of life to unravel.
chatter of blackbirds
from deep in the bramble —
Today I host Haibun Monday when we return to dVerse after two weeks of hiatus. The topic is to write about beginnings, and maybe also think about ends and how they connect to what’s new.