© Jo Hewitt THE TEAL MANGO, 2015
As the SSB Drever and I were heading from the house toward the garage to leave for a morning walk, I looked across to see my neighbor standing in her yard. I said hello. We each walked closer to the fence to talk, I with The SSB in tow. I sensed something was not right. As she reached the fence, instead of facing me, her body aligned with her gaze, looking far off and away, searching.
“Jo, is your mother alive?” she asked.
“No. She died a little over two years ago,” I answered.
“My mother just died.” She paused. “Does the pain ever end?”
“It, it gets better,” I responded, as tears welled, hers and mine.
I listened. Her words spilled out with her tears as she told of her mother’s journey of deterioration and death, of her qualities and quirks, memories of younger years. I echoed back to her my experience. We shared the emptiness that we felt with the passing of our mothers. Her mother was just past 64. Mine was three days short of 97. There never is a good age or a good time to lose your mother. We talked of people knowing it was their time to go, of the souls waiting to receive them, and of connections to the spiritual realm. She had cared for her mother those last months, weeks, days and moments. She knew her mother would be waiting for her, to care for her. It gets better.