It’s April, the month
of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple
hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time
when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time
when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining
again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing
us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”
It’s April, the month
we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just
lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for
all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the
upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable
garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her.
She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby
brother. She was starting over.
It’s April, and Mom’s
asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she
cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat,
enjoy.
But she’s not here.
It doesn’t make sense,
UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she
talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her
to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad,
difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken
too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without
your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.
I hate it.
For the first time in
my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden
is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the
family vacant.
Empty, barren,
useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.
In her voice, I hear
the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never
hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.
UD, it’s April, and the
world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.
On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell
turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.
On April 15, Notre Dame
burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it
was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't
have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad
and Mom.
Notre Dame burned, and
that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human
accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work
of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”
When I talked to Alyssa
last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of
how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to
my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you
was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you
assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your
unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.
It’s been three months
since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach
to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone
call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out
to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.
Without you, without
Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family
stay connected?
The journalist also
shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the
French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame
represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we
pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the
effort.”
Likewise, all we can do
now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you,
from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations
that come after.
It’s April, UD, and we
miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.
Love, Rach
Note: It’s April, and my
sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.
