Journal * Page 7 of 76 * Bee Lavender

12.01.17 house

The Doll’s House (Faith Bradford, 1951 / Smithsonian)

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11.26.17 without

My mother died just before Thanksgiving two years ago. This is what I wrote when I went home to pick up her ashes: eulogy.

Since her death, I’ve been reeling around the world in shock and pain, pretending that I am fine because that is what she would prefer, unable to look directly at the loss. Without her, I no longer know when daylight savings has happened. I never receive government warnings about destinations Americans should avoid. I have nobody to explain the strange things I find in the family photographs.

She always knew, even when I was thousands of miles away, if I was sick. Without her I forget to go to the doctor, or do routine tumor checks, or take the medicine that keeps me alive.

Above everything else, I have no dependable source of lacerating anger and wit to make even terrible experiences look trivial. I’ve been crying a lot, which she would hate. Growing up, I was never allowed to cry, no matter what happened.

My mother was an extraordinary, powerful, strange person. I miss her more than I could possibly convey.

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