There will be more. But to start.
I know that Ellinor did her job. When, on her deathbed 20 years ago this year, my mother asked her to look out for me, Ellinor took that job seriously and raised me into adulthood in a way I never expected, but in a way that my mother absolutely knew she would.
I know that I finally had the chance to grow up, to be with a mother as she went from middle to late age, to absorb her lessons, to have the timeline of which losing my mother at 22 robbed me.
I know that she waited until I was well and truly away, not just Canada, but a 40 minute drive, a 45 minute ferry ride, and another 45 minute drive, from an airport that wouldn’t have brought me anywhere near Medford for the first flight, and could never have gotten to her in time.
I know that she didn’t want me to see her sick, or weak, ever.
I know that she had two wonderful other daughters with her to guide her on the path, and that, having met them once and never, respectively, they did a brilliant job.
I know that the thought that got her out of the woods several times in the last few years was “I can’t do this to Marisa”.
I know our last real conversation was last Sunday, on my way back from church, and how excited she was that there were morels in her creek, and how she was going to prepare them, and how much her friend had sold them for, and we both forgot the word for mycologist and we both said “THAT’s right!” when I looked it up.
I know that, when her social worker put her on the phone with me on Saturday, and she was beyond speech, I said “I love you, Luke and I love you so much, and we want you to be comfortable, and it’s ok, I’ll be ok, I’ll be devastated, but I will be ok,” that it was the last time she reacted to anything; she moved her hand and tried to open her eyes.
I know that telling her that is the second-hardest thing I’ve ever done, and I know I needed to tell her to let her journey go on without me.
I know that, when people say “my love to you and her family,” I think “that’s weird. I *am* her family.” She has four daughters. I am the youngest.
I know that, when she was so sick a few years ago, one of her last thoughts before losing consciousness was “I haven’t done my taxes,” and it’s not lost on me that her taxes were done last week.
I know that she died on the six-year anniversary of the date my dear friend fell out a window and that, six years ago, she was visiting San Francisco, and talked me through it until he was declared dead four days later.
I know that I thought, for some reason, that we’d always have another conversation. But that is the nature of close friendship. It’s not long goodbyes. It’s thousands of small conversations that make up a lifetime, and no matter when one person ends their journey, it will feel like an interruption.
I know that I couldn’t have been in a better place, surrounded with trees and stillness and so much peace and love.
I know that, upon coming home, I could not escape her; glasses and dishware from her. My down comforters. The rose gold necklace she gave me that is set out for repair. Every plan I make for the last decade+ has come with “Should I visit then? When will be the next time, if I go away for the weekend?” and “Will I have to explain why we’re going to Thailand again when she thinks we’ve been too many times?” and “She’ll be happy I’m not traveling without Luke.” I know that there are 8 “favorites” in my phone and now I have to delete one of them…
I know I now have Mother’s Day weekend free, and I hate it.
I know that “What would Ellinor do” will continue to be my guiding light, and I’ll try to be honest about it, which means I have to add:
I know she was always more focused on what she didn’t know.
phreddiva 