Susan Macneil

It’s official.

I have become a motherless child.

The tether is gone and I am adrift, yowling in the night like the abandoned cat outside my window.

Seeking a familiar touch, missing the daily emails, Facebook hearts, phone calls, cards to say, “I love you.”

No longer listening to her sing along with Rosemary Clooney as we head out on another mystery ride. “Now this is real music.  You could dance to this music. You could fall in love to this music.”

Calling from her hospital bed.  “Honey, I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but I think I’m dying.”

Spending the final 18 minutes of her earthly existence on the phone with her.

Sorting through 90 years of life.  Three suitcases full of cards from everyone who loved her. Poems and stories in beautiful penmanship, flowing cursive expressions of gratitude and love. Love notes planned well in advance, awaiting my discovery.

A million photos. Fascination with stern men and women of good Scottish stock whose 1800s lives would have been forgotten but for her tending.

Ever the diligent pupil, I served as the arbiter of what to keep, to pass along, to discard.  She insisted I attend When Mom Dies school, even though her thoughtful instruction made me cry. 

Our final outing was a New Year’s Eve luncheon.  She closed her eyes on the ride home, something she never did, as Rosemary sang her to sleep. 18 days later she began the final descent.

Sweet Dreams, Mom.